


not in blood but in bond

by deliveryservice



Category: Produce 101 (TV), Wanna One (Band)
Genre: Multi, Slow Burn, another addition for the tragic yet beautiful ship that is onghwang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliveryservice/pseuds/deliveryservice
Summary: stolen jewels, a wealthy detective, and a retired thief.





	not in blood but in bond

**Author's Note:**

> hi, so i just have to throw this out there, but this fic wouldn't exist if it wasn't for ja who introduced me into the endless spiral that is onghwang with her amazing thread on onghwang. i also screamed about the fic a lot to her and she wasn't sick of me even after all that, so, the first dedication goes to her. ur a real one.
> 
> second is for ella, who helped me proofread some of these parts and made me tidy up my messy writing and i'm really grateful for it. i love her. <3
> 
> lastly is for everyone else i've screamed about this fic to during the three (or four, idk) weeks i took up to write this. this is the first time i've written something so long? like, 54k in three weeks? what was i running on? i've tried my best with this, and i hope you'll like this as much as i enjoyed writing this.
> 
> some parts of the story follow a non-linear format.
> 
> (oh, also, thanks to various movie soundtracks for fueling me through some scenes i was so lazy to write. composers are amazing.)

**[ i. ]**

 

Never, not even  _once_  in his life, had Seongwoo ever imagined one of the lowest points of his life would be holding a collapsed ex-criminal to his chest; even as the sound of world crashing echoes around them, even as the walls begin to collapse in on them.

“Stay with me,” The three words are the ones he repeats. A mantra, a lifeline, something to clutch him into reality.

A pool of blood never stops expanding underneath Hwang Minhyun’s collapsed form. Warmth seeps into the fabric of Seongwoo’s bottoms, the smell of blood a stark contrast with the damp, nearly moist air.

Minhyun is ghostly, already white skin growing paler by the minute, the redness of his blood accentuating the near fantasy-like portrait his crumpled, broken body makes. His breathing comes out in ragged, short breaths; eyes glossed over, as if they could close forever in any moment.

“You bastard, you’re  _not_  going to die on me—I’m not allowing you to die on me so hold on,  _no don’t close your eyes_ —Minhyun!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

There’s a steady thrum to Seongwoo’s veins as he’s faced with the front page of this morning’s newspaper.  _July 3rd_ , the date is written on the bottom right of the page, and he finds his eyes drawn towards the article on the utmost page of the newspaper.

Yesterday, the article was about the latest top star couple exposed to the public. He remembers watching their movies, remembers the way the both of them lingered too long around each other during the snippets of the press conferences that’d been shown on the television. There was always something  _different_  that separated them from other onscreen couples, so when he’d read the article yesterday, there was no surprise. Seongwoo glimpsed the title of the article with a smile, almost knowing. Then he’d flipped the page, finding his attention held by the article in the crime corner about a missing woman in Jeju-do. (He sent in an anonymous tip to the police after he finished the article, and his tea.  _Try to look into the neighbor. The one with a basement._  He has yet to check on another update of the case, but Seongwoo would bet his Benz they’d have found the woman in the basement. Alive, but maybe worse for wear.)

That was July 2nd. The day Naver’s search engine ranking would only show anything related to the top star couple, because that is the type of front page worthy scandal that never fails to make noise.

July 3rd’s front page is not about the couple. It’s not even about a new celebrity couple, although the past few days, the newspapers have been publishing articles left and right about the ‘hottest blind items’, and other things that would entice the average reader, but never holds Seongwoo’s attention for longer than a few minutes.

Instead, it boasts a picture of a jewelry display box, the glass gone and in the place where a jewel should be, a note is placed. The bolded headline reads,  _Jewelry Exhibition Cancelled After Jewel Theft!_  and there are passing mentions of no fingerprints left behind (as any decent thief would), and almost no leads to go by. The latter is written in a manner that mocks the capability of the country’s police while bringing up South Korea’s own justice system. That’s when Seongwoo flips the page of the newspaper. It’s barely shy of eight AM, and he deals with articles that hold undertones of political agendas after lunch—and  _only_  after lunch.

Any time before that, he would analyze the piece written regarding the downfall of Nokia’s stock prices instead. No matter how much the amount of statistics and numbers and generally just  _data_  involved are enough to invoke pain that isn’t unlike a bad hangover. 

He’s in the middle of the Nokia article, brows furrowed in his trademark look of concentration, looking over each sentence multiple times in a struggle to comprehend them to the best of his ability, when his phone plays the theme of Mission Impossible. He knows who it's from immediately; it's the only ringtone he has on his phone that's different from the others', so without even checking the caller ID, the identity of the one on the other line is already clear as day.

Seongwoo picks up the phone, and presses it close to his ear.

“I’m going to need you to come in.”

“What, do I not get a ‘hello’? You hurt me, Jaehwan. More than anything else, you  _wound_  me, irrevocably, irreversibly—”

“Has anyone ever mentioned how big of a pain in the ass you are, Ong?"

He bites down his grin. “You do. Every morning, and yet, you keep coming back for more,” he purrs.

On the other line, Jaehwan makes a gagging noise. “You’re a vile human being and you disgust me. Asshat.” He hangs up after that, and Seongwoo looks back on all the times he’s done that. Every time Jaehwan calls, now that he thinks about it. Knowing Jaehwan, it’s either something about a need to always get the last word in, or wanting to get Seongwoo to shut his big, smart mouth.

Maybe it’s a mixture of both.

 

 

 

 

Here’s the 411 on Ong Seongwoo:

In the year of 2014, he’d made it at the top of Forbes’ list of the richest men in the world under the age of thirty. There’d been a media outrage at the time the article was published, a sudden onslaught of articles questioning the validity of Forbes magazine.  _Is This Really the World We Live In?_  is the article with the most clicks, posted on the site of a retired Wall Street author. The article points out Ong Seongwoo’s accomplishments, making sure the readers know that when compared to the others on the list, this kid, this little trust fund baby who the world has never heard of until now (does he even have Instagram?) has never worked a day in his life. He doesn’t have a company under his belt. He isn’t the inventor of a site like Facebook (fuck you, Zuckerberg!), and he sure as hell isn’t an actor who can make a million a day and blow most of it on cocaine.

 _Who’s Ong Seongwoo? A nobody who’s only there because of mommy and daddy’s death, that’s who,_  the article points out, vicious in its approach. 

Had it been any other person, maybe they would’ve gotten upset. Cried over it and eaten pints of ice cream while watching and reciting all the lines of Titanic, or jump off a building, whatever it is that people do when they’re depressed and have their worlds crashing around them with nobody present to be a beacon ray of positivity and all things nice. Then again, Ong Seongwoo’s not just  _anybody_ , so he’d used the article as an excuse to (in the simplest words possible) get off his ass and do something with his life and all the money he has that he doesn’t blow on drugs (anymore). Or any other illegal activity (once again, anymore), because he’s a trust fund baby who had some pretty rough times in his life, but now, likes to think of himself as clean enough to function. If the media thinks he’s going to let them walk over him like that, then they can suck their collective, metaphorical dicks, because Ong Seongwoo’s hobby is proving people wrong by succeeding and pissing them off in the process. 

(It’s a perfectly dignified hobby, okay?)

This is Seongwoo’s Revenge (the capitalization is a must) in chronological order: 

 

  1. Send an email to the author if  _Is This Really The World We Live In?_ and point out the errors that litter said article. Nothing linguistics-wise, but the inaccuracy of his personal details had been a pain to read through. Dissing him is one thing, but dissing him with false facts is a one-way ticket to a lawsuit that he’s not bothered enough to give. (Lawsuits, lawsuits, lawsuits. If he has one for every negative article he’d gotten because of that damned list, his reputation would rival Taylor Swift’s.)
  2. Use his deduction skills for anything further than sending in anonymous tips for the police whenever they prove themselves to be lazy and/or wrong. He set up a website, boasting his credentials (a BA in political science he doesn’t know what to do with but displays anyway) and skills of observation. He also makes sure to write down, in bold and underline, that his fees are flexible. Depending on the complexity of the case, and (this he adds with a smiley face emoji), if he’s in a good mood, might even do it for free. Everyone likes freebies, right?
  3. Subsequently prove to the world that he’s more than his parents’ money by becoming one of the best detectives of his time, as well as proving himself to be the police force’s biggest pain in the ass for stealing their cases. How is it his fault if they’re incompetent and the public trusts him more with their mysteries? It’s  _not_ , that’s how.



 

He’d been working independent, choosing his own cases and keeping all the money for himself (and taxes), up until the fateful day when he’d received an Email from a friend who, frankly, he assumed to have gone missing. That thought was not because of ill will, but because this is the same friend nobody caught any word of since graduation.       

 

> **From:**  [jaehwankim@naver.co.kr](mailto:jaehwankkm@naver.co.kr)
> 
> **To:**  [inquiries@ong.co.kr](mailto:inquiries@ong.co.kr)
> 
> **Subject:**  Coffee?
> 
>  
> 
> It’s been a while. I’m in town, and we should—no, we  _have_  to—catch up. There’s something I have to talk to you about.
> 
> Your old friend, 
> 
> Kim Jaehwan. 

This is where something happens—the turning point, if you must call it—because the something that Jaehwan wanted to talk to Seongwoo about is in regards to project funding, and it’s a project the both of them have talked about in the past, although years have passed. “So,” Seongwoo drawls. “You want me to help you fund an independent crime-fighting agency? And then you’re going to be  _my_  boss?”

To his credit, Jaehwan stays undaunted, even if there’s a taunt in Seongwoo’s words. That’s something Seongwoo’s always admired in Jaehwan, the obvious confidence that Jaehwan carries himself with and how he never lets anyone bring down his mojo. “It’s going to be big, and I’m going to need all the help I can get.” 

“Okay.” Seongwoo puts down the file, having made up his mind. “I’m in.”

So, here are the words to describe Ong Seongwoo: rich, brilliant, modern day non-fictitious Sherlock Holmes without the Watson, a crucial member slash funder of Jaehwan’s Angels. (That’s not the real name, but that’s what Seongwoo wishes was the real name.  _Kim Jaehwan’s Crimebusters Incorporated_  is nowhere as cool as Jaehwan’s Angels.) 

Ah, and here's one thing a person must never forget, when they're tasked to describe Ong Seongwoo: he's handsome. Never forget the handsome.

 

 

 

 

Because Kim Jaehwan has horrible taste (not only in building but also in clothes, and Seongwoo would say men if it wasn't for the fact he hasn't seen Jaehwan date anyone in what feels like years and are probably years), the 'super secret hideout' for Kim Jaehwan's Crimebusters Incorporated is located smack-dab in the middle of Seoul. It's something about hiding in plain sight and learning to be subtle around the locals, though Seongwoo wouldn't say having a flower shop that offers the most limited assortment he's ever seen to be necessarily  _subtle_. The only redeeming thing about their hideout is the fact that it makes him feel like he's a part of a spy movie, what with the whole secret headquarters thing going on, but the novelty's worn off after spending a couple of years going to the same place and doing nearly the same thing every other week.

"Hello, Seongwoo," the reception lady chirps, and Seongwoo has to look at the name tag to remember her name. They seem to change every two weeks, though Seongwoo would blame that on Jaehwan and his prone to temper outbursts kind of personality that never fails to drive people away.

"Morning"—he squints to read the nametag—"Irene!”

"That's Irene  _noona_  to you," the reception lady chides.

"You don't look a day older than eighteen, though," Seongwoo says in return, laying on the charm.

To her credit, Irene doesn't even blink. "I'm five years older than you.”

"Whoops!" Seongwoo's lips curl into a sheepish grin. "Sorry, but I  _did_  say you don't look a day older than eighteen. I mean it!" He finger guns, because he can and he's insufferable like that, and waltzes away into the cleaning room that functions as the gateway between the flower shop (that has an entire office in the back, it's really miraculous how nobody's noticed? Like, wow much?).

There's an elevator hidden behind the stack of room cleaning appliances, and Seongwoo presses on the arrow that points downwards. There's actually only one button, everything else being underground, because Jaehwan thinks it'd be cooler. (Don't tell Jaehwan, but Seongwoo thinks the same way, too.)

Inside the elevator, the most recent Twice song is blasted, and Seongwoo taps his feet to the rhythmic beat. Jaehwan collects girlgroup memorabilia in his bedroom, Seongwoo would know, as he's paid visit to said place multiple times before. (Nothing in  _that_  way, mostly in a 'where have you been for the past few days, the fuck?' kind of way, and somehow he always finds Jaehwan in his bedroom whenever that happens, looking more catatonic than anything. They don't talk about those days.)

When the elevator doors open, he's greeted by the sight that is his workplace, workers (both agents and non-agent operatives) dressed in their everyday attires. The best thing about having Jaehwan as a boss is his hatred for uniforms, so he allows them to wear whatever they want, as long as they're office appropriate. His excuse is, "Just in case anyone needs to go undercover all of a sudden!" but anyone who's had a conversation with Kim Jaehwan would know that he just really,  _really_  dislikes stuffy business suits that regular jobs would dub as appropriate work attire.

Jaehwan's office is located right next to the bathroom (boss privileges), and Seongwoo finds Jaehwan waiting for him there, feet rested on the top of his table. No shame, as per usual.

"So, what do I have?" Seongwoo prompts, taking the empty seat on the other side of the table. The seat is wooden and unstuffed, and in contrast, Jaehwan's seat (or what he likes to call "The Boss Seat") has wheels, is made of faux leather that still feels comfortable, and is padded. No wonder Jaehwan has a tendency to fall asleep on the clock.

"The jewel heists," Jaehwan gets straight to the point, passing a file to Seongwoo. "I didn't think we needed to step in, but a friend called me. Apparently the case is most likely connected—and don't give me that look, I know you've come to the same conclusion, you smartass—but it's going to be difficult to apprehend the criminal if each country's laws have their limitations regarding areas and... all that. That's where we come in.”

"'And all that.' You could be a writer with that vocabulary, have you ever considered a career change?”

"Shut up, Ong.”

Joking aside, Seongwoo moves to open the folder, and Jaehwan doesn't say anything nor does he move to stop him. Jaehwan only watches, quiet and observing.

"This started two months ago?" The first thing he sees is the date of the first heist, and it was on May 4th, 2017. The picture is of a green jewel, the shade similar to that of an emerald’s.

"Yeah. That one—The Emerald Dragon, and why do people give fancy names to jewelries anyway? —was stolen in Shanghai. From a museum, so you'd think they'd have better security, but apparently all the security cameras were hacked. Our thief's good, managed to get in without setting any alarms, though that might be the job of his hacker." Jaehwan's mouth twists into a grimace. "They checked the system after they lost the jewel. Anything security-related was turned off, and there was no trace of it at all.”

"Wow. Clean job, huh?" Seongwoo whistles.

"Yeah," Jaehwan murmurs. The clean jobs are always the headache-inducing jobs, because the people involved are meticulous in those. Meticulous not to leave any evidence, meticulous to not get caught. At some point though, anyone is bound to slip up; and that's the opening Seongwoo would use to swoop in, figure out the case, and save the day.

(The day is metaphorical, because sometimes, it's not even a day he saves. It could be a week, or in other occasions, a life. Those are always the best kind of saving.)

Something in the report catches his eye. "There was a note left?”

Jaehwan's head dips into a nod. "Yeah. There's no picture of the note, because apparently it's too hard to get my orders right when the only thing I'm asking for is a picture of  _all the fucking evidence_ , but it's a good thing I've got some eyes there. Apparently, there was nothing written. Just a picture of a moon.”

"A moon?" How peculiar. "Why would someone leave behind a moon?”

"I don't know, that's why  _you're_  the detective instead of me, Ong.”

Seongwoo waves him off. "Right, right. You can tell me if you're jealous, you know. I wouldn't mind letting you snoop into my, uh, mystery busting process."

The look on Jaehwan's face is priceless. If it were any other person, Seongwoo might've felt offended by how  _horrified_  one looks upon being flirted with, but this is Jaehwan, so really, Seongwoo would feel the same way if he were in Jaehwan's place. He's only doing the whole flirting thing to see Jaehwan’s reactions. It’s a pastime. "Stop flirting and start working on the case, we don't know if the thief's going to strike again."

Because he's a Professional™ Seongwoo is quick to sober up, catching up with the details of Jaehwan's words. "You said thief. So, you're sure this isn't some kind of Ocean's 11 thing going on?"

"I’m sure. Call it a gut feeling."

"Gut feelings are useless when there's no proof to back it up. See, this is why  _I'm_  the detective, and you're the boss. You fire and hire people with your gut."

“That doesn’t even—“ Jaehwan pinches the bridge of his nose. “Why do I even bother. Get out of my office and get to work.”

Seongwoo does a lazy salute, a cheeky smile painting the lower half of his face. "Roger that!"

 

 

 

 

This is the way Seongwoo works:

He finds a nice place to sit down. Nice is relative, so while in one occasion it might be the eatery down the street (completely adjacent to a white collar bank, it makes a nice place for part-time people watching as well), while in other times—read: most of the time—said "nice" place is the little meeting room in the office, where no one comes in because no meetings are actually held and Jaehwan only added one in as a formality. The office barely does  _any_  kind of official, work-like things, with Jaehwan preferring to inform them of their jobs personally, and their group chat using an application Jaehwan had hired someone to make (with near state of the art security and high-profile encryption) as their primary form of communication. One for technology, zero for healthy work environment communication skills. (Ding!—If you haven't realized, that's Seongwoo's attempt at a buzzer from a game show.)

So—meeting room. There's a clinical cleanliness aspect to it, considering the janitor still comes by to clean the room every day (and night) despite its rare usage; the room, square-based and as big as Seongwoo's guest room back at the manor, smells like a wet mop and floor-cleaning formulas. The cheap ones that you can find at a convenience store, not the ones you'll only find at high-end supermarkets. A single plant decorates the room, a potted silk areca palm tree imported from the States, and how it hasn't died is a mystery that even Ong Seongwoo can't solve. The janitor hates greenery, for some reason, and everyone else could care less. If he were superstitious, maybe he'd say this is all the work of a Casper-like ghost who'd most likely been a botanist in their life. But he isn't superstitious and the meeting room's CCTV is faulty at best, so he's accepted not knowing the mystery behind the potted plant of Kim Jaehwan's Crimebusters Incorporated's meeting room.

A taxi has crashed in front of the white-collar bank, and though there are no casualties, the driver has taken it upon himself to conduct what is essentially an interview from nearby bloggers waiting for a scoop at the eatery that is the alternative to the meeting room. There's a crowd of the driver, the bloggers, and the regular eaters (as it is morning after all, and the eatery's pancakes are famous not just in this district, but in Seoul in general), and Seongwoo can't be bothered to wait in a line that could last as long as half an hour. 

The meeting room it is.

"You're the only person around here who uses this!" A lady who breezes by, carrying a stack of papers that seem too heavy for her wispy arms, makes sure to say.

"Better than it being a waste of space. And money," he retorts, and his brows knit. " _My_  money."

(There's the reason why he uses the meeting room. It'd be a waste of the money, and to be more specific, the money from his inheritance he'd blown on an idea that most would consider as 'fucking crazy.' Because there's a reason why spy movie plots are movies instead of reality. Jaehwan was probably crazy when he thought of this idea, and what does that make of Seongwoo who must've been out of his mind to fund it? A product of boredom gone bad mixed with an entanglement of capitalism, that's what.)

The meeting room is empty and Seongwoo's seat (technically Jaehwan's but does Jaehwan ever use it? Nope!) is, by extension, empty as well. The seat is right next to the window that overlooks one of Seoul's busiest working districts, skyscrapers adjacent to each other, paved roads leading to traffic lights and the bustling pedestrians at any time of the day. Seongwoo's heart soars at the sight of the city,  _his_  city (and is he sounding like some Batman towards Gotham right now or  _what_?), in the current state it is at now; jostling with life, and maybe not the safest when you've still got your pickpockets every once in a while, but in all accounts, for a metropolitan city it's  _safe_  and this is why Seongwoo does what he does. He wants to keep them safe, keep them busy and make sure their worries are only about what to eat for dinner or where to bring their dates for tomorrow.

Leave the big bad criminals to him, leave him to weed out whoever does the dirty crime little by little, and let the people worry only about the little things. That's why, when someone tells him that he could be doing so much more with the money he has—could build something like a weapons company or even a tech one because that's where the money's at—Seongwoo never feels an ounce of regret towards his chosen career path. Unconventional and not necessarily always high-paying (as if the murder of a grocer pays the same as a government official, though that isn't necessarily what Seongwoo agrees with because at the end of the day all humans are the same, but that's the way the world works) but it makes him feel like he's doing  _something_  to make his city a better place.

(God, he sounds like a protagonist, and for all the bravado he puts on for being cocky and essentially feeding every trust fund baby trope there is, behind the money and the publicity,  _that's_  who Seongwoo really is.)

The stolen jewelries might not be based in Seoul, and Seongwoo would be lying if he said he had the same attachment to these places instead of  _here_ , but that's the thing about working with a global crimefighting company: you don't always get to choose where your cases are at, and sometimes, even if you dislike a certain place, you still have to do something to restore a semblance of peace there. Do it for the people, and all that, because even if Seongwoo's mostly in it for Seoul, everyone deserves a shot at having a life that isn't made abnormal by murders and robberies. 

He places the files down on the table, and picks up a pen and an empty piece of paper to jot down his notes. He's the type of person to write as he goes, to note down every single piece of information he deems relevant, to draw graphs or underline the details one could consider as "fishy." This case isn't any different, and as Seongwoo proceeds to read through the report, all short and factual sentences, the notetaking and pen scrawling is exactly what he does.

It isn't until he's reached the documentation on the stolen jewel from London that the moon, along with the dates, spark an idea into his head. "Let's see," he says under his breath, using his phone's search engine to look up a specific occasion that happens on the dates of the previous heists: May 4th, June 3rd, and the latest, July 2nd.

He holds his breath, and once the results show (thank you, fast internet that he may or may not occasionally use for Netflix whenever Jaehwan's not watching!) a grin that isn't unlike the Cheshire Cat's from Alice in Wonderland surfaces onto his lips, completely overtaking the straight, focused line it had been. 

 _Bingo_.

 

 

 

 

"So, what you're trying to say is that our thief only strikes on the dates of full moons from 2004?" Jaehwan asks flatly, his eyes trained onto Seongwoo’s notes that were thrown together in haphazard. 

“Exactly. It all matches up, see?” Seongwoo gestures at the little notes he’d scribbled in blue ink. Jaehwan tilts his head, and tilts the paper as well, and yet, he still has a difficult time making it out. The smartest people always seem to have the worst handwriting—or maybe that’s not the case, but that’s what Seongwoo uses as an excuse for his shitty excuse of one.

“It’s not really what you’d call a strong lead.” His face contorts into a frown.

“Hey, it’s our  _only_  lead.”

“God, I hate it when you’re right.”

“You must hate every passing moment of your life, then.” Seongwoo snickers, barely avoiding a thwart over the head with his own piece of paper. Good thing he’d avoided it, because being attacked by your own sheet of paper is, in Seongwoo’s not humble opinion, a new low.  

“If your guess about his next target is correct—”

“Which, you know, it probably is.” 

“—as I was saying before you interrupted me, if you’re right, then that means you’re going to have to work fast to make sure it doesn’t happen. I’m assigning you with a partner.” Jaehwan puts away the file into the storage underneath his table.

“Yeah! Wait,  _what_? A partner?” Seongwoo’s euphoria is short-lived, the tonality of his words going from an upbeat trill to one of an outburst, mixed with a healthy tinge of confusion, in a matter of seconds. There’s a reason why he’s one of the only ones here who hasn’t been assigned a partner. Seongwoo works  _terrible_  with others; whenever Jaehwan would send someone to work with him, back when the both of them had been new to this thing, Seongwoo had the ability to scare them away within 72 hours, or less. Less, a majority of the time. Interns going in fresh-faced and then submitting the resignation form after facing his ego and his general lack of nicety for others, and Jaehwan ended up getting fed up with having to recruit new people nearly everyday—so in the end, they reached to a compromise, where Jaehwan would stop finding new people to work with Seongwoo as long as he proved himself capable of working solo.

It hasn’t been a problem for the past few years. So when Jaehwan announces, more sudden than the forced loveline in that new drama airing every Monday night, that Seongwoo would have a partner on a mission that doesn’t present itself at anything special—it becomes a problem.

“Jaehwan, you know I don’t play well with others,” Seongwoo says all of this with a gaping mouth. If Jaehwan, the fucker, had a camera, Seongwoo’s sure he would capture this moment right now as a memorabilia of the time he’d managed to drive Ong Seongwoo into shock.

“You’re not going to solve this one alone,” Jaehwan says, conviction lacing his every word.

And, sure, the words  _sting_. Seongwoo’s never failed Jaehwan before; his cases are a clean track record, and he’s never failed to apprehend the criminal, never failed to uncover the truth of some deeply shrouded web of government-level secrets. Knowing Jaehwan doesn’t trust him enough to let him do this one case on his own—and really, how could this case compare to the time he’d discovered a drug ring in a country’s government? That’s Seongwoo’s biggest case, the one that got him on the map, and that’s bound to be more difficult than finding a jewel thief, right? —knowing that, it  _sucks_. Seongwoo thought he’d gotten rid of disappointment now that he never has his hopes up, because that’s a surefire way to get yourself sad a lot (the world constantly proves itself that it hates Seongwoo and never fails to let him down, but at least there’s consistency there). He thought he’d gotten rid of that kind of despondency, but Jaehwan must be a miracle worker, because there’s some real bitterness that Seongwoo finds in the burrow of emotions he calls his heart.

“What, you don’t think I can solve this on my own?”

“No,” Jaehwan is blunt with his response, and Seongwoo’s bitterness fades, anger growing in its stead. “To catch a jewel thief—one that’s as good as our guy because you can’t say he’s bad when there’s barely any clue as to who it is—you have to think like one.”

“I can think like one just fine. I watched a documentary on a jewel thief so I’m pretty sure I can get into character, or maybe—”

“ _Shut up and let me talk_!”

Seongwoo shrinks into his seat. A pout that resembles that of a pungent child wobbles on his lower lip. “Fine." 

“Trust me on this one. It’s not about me doubting your abilities.” So, maybe Jaehwan’s a mind-reader, or maybe (and this is a case that’s like hood of happening is higher than the mind-reader possibility) he’s known Seongwoo long enough to read him like an open book. “I don’t want to take any chances, and one of my contacts recently gave me the whereabouts of someone who might be able to help.”

“Any chance the person’s already here? Maybe waiting behind your curtain or something?” The curtain, beige and washed out by the sun’s blinding rays, is hiding no one. It’s also not even drawn. “Guess not?”

“Convincing him to do the job will be your responsibility.” Jaehwan gives a conniving smirk, leaving Seongwoo to groan, because why  _him_? He’s terrible at having people stick around him, much less convincing them to  _help_  him. “I’ve got his address already, so you’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Yeah, because tracking’s  _always_  the hard part,” Seongwoo grumbles, the sarcasm evident like the blinding ray of a flashlight in a pitch-dark closet. 

Jaehwan checks his watch, one of Seongwoo’s birthday gifts, a Rolex Antimagnetique model that looks as complicated as a Rolex can be. “Stop whining, you’ve got a plane to catch in—oh, an hour. The boarding gate closes in forty minutes, so I think you should run. Take a cab and  _then_  run, no need to pack.”

“No need to pack? What, am I supposed to wear  _this_  the whole time?” Had he known, he wouldn’t have chosen to wear the combo of the white shirt and the ripped denim jeans. He wouldn’t believe  _himself_  if he tried convincing said “himself” that he was a world class detective with a global case to crack.

“I never said anything about you staying there for multiple days. Just recruit the dude, and go back here with him so I can have a word and all that official jargon you know I can barely stand. Thirty-nine minutes until the gate closes!”

 

 

 

 

The plane (that he'd been lucky enough not to miss, though his name was called in one of those "the boarding gate will shortly be closed" calls, no thanks to Jaehwan) takes him to New York. Amongst the thrall of suits and business skirts sitting in first class, Seongwoo sticks out like a sore thumb with his casual, near effortless attire. This is, once again, no thanks to Jaehwan. 

"You can get a cab there or something," Jaehwan had said, as if saying that would take the burden off his shoulders. Which, technically, it does. "Here's your address." His boss slash friend slash the person who maybe secretly hates him or loves him hands over a business card, scented with perfume Seongwoo is unable to recognize. Maybe it's Hermes. Seongwoo doesn't have one of those. 

 _The Art House_  is written on the card with Times New Roman, likely 12pts, italicized and bolded, the words dipped in gold. A silver border surrounds the three words. Seongwoo flips the card, and finds an address along with a single name, romanicized. Hwang Minhyun.

Minhyun, Hwang—the name sparks a warning bell in his head, but for what exactly, Seongwoo cannot remember. 

"Are you going to get me to work with a—what's this—an art curator?" He purses his lips at Jaehwan, who looks like he's short of bursting into the maniacal cackles he calls laughter in a matter of seconds.

Jaehwan, that fucker, folds his arms on the top of the hardwood. "Don't tell me you don't recognize the name."

The warning bells transitions into sirens. "I don't." Seongwoo narrows his eyes in suspicion, first at the card, then at his employer. 

"One of my top men doesn't recognize Hwang Minhyun? Have you not been reading all those super secret archives? I'm shocked. Really, I am." The hand that'd been folded primly on the table crosses over his heart. Jaehwan's face contorts from one of mock surprise, removing any trace of the neutrality that was just there. 

Seongwoo raises both of his hands, waving the palms as if to say, 'just spit it out.'

"He's a retired jewel thief." Jokes aside, Jaehwan goes straight to the point, putting his arms down and folding them on his lap, under the table. "Used to be one of the best, but his leg got shot—never could get back to the hang of things. Remember the Pink Panther case?"

The Pink Panther case. Three years ago, that was all the news talked about, as if the world had stopped revolving since the thievery of one of the most well-protected jewels in the whole world. Something straight out of a movie, the case seemed, what with the manner it'd been taken (in the dead of the night, all the guards taken out with a blow dart and the security systems bypassed and shut down just like that) and how no suspect was ever apprehended despite the media coverage that the team, composed of some of the best detectives and profilers in the world, received. It's a cold case, now, although there are websites dedicated to the solving of it; a fruitless effort when the thief proved himself (or herself) to be meticulous in covering their steps. 

"What do you take me for, a hermit? 'Course I remember." Seongwoo scoffs, reclining on his seat. "Wasn't that case everywhere? The media was going crazy about that. Even Won Bin's dating rumours were nothing in comparison—and that's  _Won Bin_."

"Grow out the hair and you could pass as a hermit," Jaehwan mocks. Seongwoo resists the urge to throw a tissue at his head, because that'd be a waste of the tissue, and by extension, the environment. "Hwang Minhyun was the culprit. At least, that's what we caught on three years late, and there was no sufficient evidence to put him behind bars." His lips twist into a grimace. "Doesn't matter now, though. He's retired, as I've mentioned before. Isn't really a thief anymore, just an art curator in New York."

"Then how'd you figure out it was him?"

"Someone fessed up. A little bit of snooping done in the criminal underworld added more anecdotes to the original statement." Jaehwan unfolds his hands, and lays them out on the table. Like he's laying out cards. 

"Alright, then," Seongwoo drawls. "But how am I supposed to get him to help me? I mean, I know my good looks are devastating, but maybe not to the extent they'll break some kind of jewel thieves’ bro code. If that exists. Probably does, anything's possible nowadays," he mutters the last thing to himself, dark brows furrowed in thought.

"You're smart," Jaehwan says, sounding almost begrudging. "Figure that part out yourself."

The detective crosses his arms in front of his chest, although the image of authority is ruined with that of petulance as lips jut out into a pout. "You're a terrible boss, you know that?"

So, that's why he's in New York City; the sun is gone by now, swallowed by the night, but this isn't the city that never sleeps for nothing. Even in the night, when no stars shine anymore and the moon is obstructed by dark, polluted clouds, the city's radiant, bursting with the colours from the lights from all around the city.

Seongwoo finds a cab with no problem. They're everywhere, he figures, and as he hops into one, he's stuck with his hands metaphorically crossing his heart, hoping the driver won't recognize him. It leads to questions, and questions lead to unnecessary conversations. All Seongwoo wants to do is rest, maybe sleep for a day or two, but he can't, obviously; he's a man on a mission and he's not going to start failing his missions now.

(And yes, the questions; one should find it curious how one of the richest men under 30 in the world goes around New York without a limousine or whatever it is the top percentile use, but he can't say "Kim Jaehwan is the reason behind all this and also world hunger, probably!" could he?

Wait—he could. Why hasn't he done that?)

"Where are we headed, Sir?" The cabbie asks once Seongwoo has gotten in the car, closing the door with an audible thud. He settles into his seat, and like any good passenger would, puts on his seatbelt. 

"Madison Avenue, please." He can find the location on his own from there, and a little room to stretch his legs after a long flight is something that his near numb feet are in desperate need of. (That's the reason why Seongwoo loathes long plane rides; as the type to be quick on his feet, figuratively and literally, that kind of discomfort is—pardon his french—the fucking worst.) 

The cabbie drives as if they're fugitives on the run from the police, that is to say, he drives fast. Maybe it's the New York traffic (and wanting to avoid it whenever they're not stuck in a long, long line or stopped by the spread out traffic lights) or maybe the cabbie's a thrill seeker who ended up scraping the bottom barrel in terms of thrill seeking by using a cab to do that, who knows? Not Seongwoo, nor is he someone who makes small talk with strangers, so he settles for accepting and hanging on tightly to the arm grip underneath the car window. Whenever the car takes a sudden sharp turn, or when the thrall of cars zoom by in what can be described most accurately as a blur, the only thing he can do is hold on tighter and pray the mission won't end (tragically) before it even started. 

He’ll never admit this, especially not to the people who won’t ever let him live it down, but the moment the cab comes to a stop, he thanks every deity there is out there that he knows of in his head. Thank you Jesus, thank you Buddha, thank you Zeus, and thank you Beyoncé.

“We’re here,” the driver announces, and Seongwoo takes some money out of his wallet, adding a little extra as a tip—common courtesy more than anything. The driver accepts it with a smile, bidding him, “Have a nice day!” as Seongwoo gets out of the car, closes the door, and never looks back. There goes the wildest cab drive of his life, not just in New York, but also all the places he’d travelled using a taxi.

Maybe he’ll take the bus next time.

In accordance to the business card Jaehwan gave him, Hwang Minhyun’s art gallery should be located right across  _James & Co_; though not the most helpful indicator, considering the similarity of the architecture of the buildings around Madison Avenue (and Manhattan in particular now that he thinks about it), it’s better than nothing. Seongwoo walks along the borough, Google Maps guiding the way on his phone—the battery reads 38%, so he makes do with what he has, and turns off the notifications for this texts. Even if that leads to the consequence of at least 500 missed texts from Jaehwan (who is known to double text, almost terribly, to the point of endangering Seongwoo's battery to the point of 0, if the notifications are left on.)

The coloured lights cast reflections on the path he takes, puddles from the rare onslaught of rain turning (predominantly) red and yellow, following the neon signs and city lights that hang around the streets. Seongwoo has never been much for sightseeing or picture-taking, a majority of his overseas trips being one of work-related activities instead of a leisurely kind of visit (this time not being an exception), but if his battery wasn’t dying, he’d take a picture—or two—of the scenery. Maybe pose underneath a street lamp, if he ever found a stranger who doesn’t look as if they might run off with his phone. But, that doesn’t happen, and all the strangers that walk by never give him a second look, each of them busy living their own lives. So, there goes  _that_  plan; botched and foiled.

“You have arrived at your destination,” a robotic female says, as soon as Seongwoo finishes following the directions left by the application. He looks up from his phone, and finds that he has to look up even more to read the sign on top of the building—two stories high, painted jet black as if to fit in with the night.  _The Art House_ , the plaque reads, the golden writing standing out over the porcelain canvas. Behind the door, the open sign has been turned around to a ‘ _Sorry, we’re closed!_ ’, but Seongwoo still sees that the light is still on, and when he tugs on the door, he finds that it’s unlocked. 

An unlocked door is practically an open invitation for him to enter, regardless of the business hours, so Seongwoo comes in, right foot before the other. 

“We’re closed,” someone calls out immediately, and Seongwoo closes the door slowly, confusion growing in his head. There’d been no door bell or any other noise to signify he’d come in, so how’d the person heard him? 

Then again, if said person is Hwang Minhyun, supposedly a legendary jewel thief (before he retired, but what are semantics anyway? —alright maybe he shouldn’t be saying this as a detective who’s supposed to look at semantics), then that was a question with an automatic answer. 

"I'm here to see a Hwang Minhyun?" Seongwoo calls out, as he inspects the interior of the gallery. Considering the nature of his job as well as his interest in art (that is to say, none), the creme-themed design—a stark contrast from the darker shades that make the exterior—make the place seem… posh? Is that the right term? Seongwoo imagines, if classical music started playing all of a sudden, it wouldn't feel out of place at all. Paintings, all of them displaying different art styles and having nothing except beauty in common, are hung all around the room, with little details plaqued underneath them.

He's in the middle of inspecting a painting from France (the detail put into the paintings are nowhere short of impeccable, reminding Seongwoo of his own eye for detail when working on a case) when he hears a tap of a foot on ceramic floor from behind him. He flinches, because Seongwoo doesn't do jumping in fright, because if that had been a life and death situation whereas he hadn't noticed someone sneak up on him—he could've died. And Seongwoo doesn't need to die before the age of thirty, as only the good die young, and Seongwoo falls away from that category almost terribly.

Dark brown eyes meet lighter ones as Seongwoo turns around, finding himself adjacent from a man—slightly taller, this he notes with no lack of envy—wearing slacks and a loose, white shirt, a glint of amusement shining within his orbs. "Come back tomorrow if you're interested in the art."

"I'm not," Seongwoo denies, as if he hadn't been observing the artwork a few seconds ago. "Like I've said, I'm here to talk to Hwang Minhyun." He squints at the taller. "Are you Hwang Minhyun?" That's a trick question, because Seongwoo has taken the time and liberty to look through Hwang Minhyun's file from Jaehwan's archives, and the man standing before him fits the physical description (and picture!) of Hwang Minhyun to a T.

(By that, Seongwoo means the man is  _handsome_ , not in a way like Seongwoo’s where his face looks like a literal Greek God, but Minhyun’s beauty reminds him of the edge of a very sharp knife.) 

“Yes,” Minhyun admits, although his lower lips twist, and he looks at Seongwoo with no small amount of suspicion. “Why were you looking for me?” 

“Wow, you’re not going to offer me tea, or anything else to drink?” 

“No.” 

“I’m—” The look Minhyun sends is his way is that of someone who just wants to go home, and Seongwoo returns it with a look of petulance. “I was just joking,” he whispers under his breath, and if it were possibly to say something ‘poutily’, that would’ve been said like that—poutily. 

“So?” Minhyun prompts, patience wearing thin by the minute. Or second. (Most likely the latter, judging by how he doesn’t bother to hide the annoyance shining through his well-sculpted facial features.) 

“I’m Ong Seongwoo. Maybe you’ve heard of me?” The resounding look does nothing to answer that, because Minhyun has a hell of a poker face that even Seongwoo finds difficulty in deciphering. “Anyway, I’m working on a case right now. You might’ve heard of it, if you still like the shiny things in particular—” He particularly enjoys the way Minhyun’s eyes widen a fraction, the first sign of discomposure he’s shown during the entire conversation, “—but a bunch of jewels have been stolen. Me? I don’t know anything about stealing jewels. Murders are usually my specialty, and I won’t lie; I’m one of the best in that field. But give me a case about stolen gems? Even  _I_  need… help.” 

Help that his boss forced him to undertake, but, help is help. That counts, right? It should.

“How did you find out?” Minhyun asks, his voice soft and nothing short of gentle, yet there’s something undeniably dangerous underneath the saccharine layers. It makes Seongwoo feel uneasy, knowing he’s in the company of someone who’d been a criminal, and on top of that, the kind of criminal who’d gotten away with his crimes.

“I’m working with an independent crime agency, if you will.” Seongwoo makes a gesture with his hand, turning his palm upwards, and Minhyun’s face remains stoic. “I was going to say something about me figuring it out because of my intellectual prowess—”

 “—well, it’s a good thing you didn’t,” Minhyun cuts him short. A ghost of a smirk shapes his lips, and Seongwoo’s not sure whether he likes this, or the straight line it’d been better.

Both looks have something in common, however: they’re both intimidating, and that’s saying something, considering Ong Seongwoo  _rarely_  ever gets intimidated by anyone or anything that isn’t his own reflection in the mirror when he’s wearing his best Sunday clothes.

“Rude,” Seongwoo says, aghast. Minhyun doesn’t bat an eye. “Long story short, I know about your past as some kind of master thief or whatever you claimed yourself as—”

Minhyun frowns. “I didn’t label myself as anything.”

 “— _and_ , let me finish, I need your help on a case,” Seongwoo finishes, in spite of the interruption from his single audience. “We’ll split the reward and everything, the money’s pretty good, but somehow, I don’t think that’s the deal-breaking reward for you, is it?”

A cat ate the canary grin forms on Seongwoo’s lips as Minhyun tenses, a small movement that the untrained eye wouldn’t have seen, but this is  _Ong Seongwoo_. He practically lives and breathes details—it’s how he stays on the top of his game.

Not seeing a response coming any time soon, Seongwoo carries on, mindful of the other’s reaction to his every word. “I’m sure you’d find it up to your liking if your… past colleague’s current work stayed out of the press.” This isn’t blackmailing, or at least, that’s what Seongwoo’s telling himself; it isn’t as if he’d go and out the information he withheld now to the nearest TMZ office (or Dispatch, whatever) if Minhyun refused his offer, but—judging by the widening of Minhyun’s eyes, and the way he seems to harden his resolve, the likehood of that happening grows smaller with every passing moment.

“I don’t know what you mean.” It’s a valiant attempt, but still, Seongwoo’s got Minhyun all figured out now; trying to go against that is futile.

“Kim Jonghyun,” Seongwoo says, and the two words have the effect he’d just so expected. Minhyun clenches his fist, sharply trimmed nails digging into his skin. “You don’t want to play that game with me. I know when you’re lying, and when you’re not,” he almost coos, but the icy glare Minhyun directs as him makes him fall short of that. In retrospect, that might’ve saved him from being strangled to death by the same person he was trying to recruit, but it’s not like Seongwoo knew Kim Jonghyun would’ve been  _that_  touchy of a subject.

“What are you going to do with him?” Minhyun prompts, and there’s something so inherently cold about his manner; this isn’t to say it hadn’t been cold before, but if Seongwoo puts it into words, it’s as if he’d gone from plus to minus degrees in temperature.

“Nothing,” and this, what Seongwoo’s saying, is truthful. The earnest, he makes sure, shows in his face. “But it’s the nothing that should concern you. The government has some files on him—it’s only a matter of time before they use his name as a distraction for a scandal and drag him to jail.”

“They wouldn’t do that; they’ve got dating news.”

“Sorry to say but they’ve released  _all_  the dating news in the arsenal.” That shuts Minhyun up, leaving him gaping like a fish out of water. “So, they’re going to turn to crime next. If you choose to help me, you’ll have my word that I’m going to do everything I can to ensure all of those files are deleted.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you, just like that?” Minhyun scoffs, sneering down at him.

“Well…” Seongwoo knows this might not be the most professional move, but he can’t exactly  _help_  it, so he rubs the back of his head, ignoring the judging kind of bafflement that comes from Minhyun at the action. “Yeah. My face’s enough guarantee, isn’t it?” He adds cheekily.

Minhyun doesn’t even look moved. “No, it’s not. How am I even supposed to know that the government even  _has_  files on him? You could be lying.”

A groan is what comes out from Seongwoo’s mouth as he hears Minhyun’s reply, and he unlocks his phone, opens a video, and hands it over to Minhyun who snatches it out of Seongwoo’s grasp, albeit not without a look of genuine curiosity. “You ask a lot of questions. How paranoid,” he mumbles, as if he isn’t paranoid himself. “Just look at the video I’ve got there. It’s what the government has too.” Seongwoo yawns, covering his mouth with his sleeve. Or, his arm, considering he’s not wearing a sleeved (long-sleeved, to be more precise) shirt—eh, whatever.

The video is barely a minute long, but it has incriminating evidence; Kim Jonghyun caught by a camera as he steals a pretty gem, taking it and sneaking away within a small timeframe. It would’ve seemed like the perfect crime had it not been caught on camera—alas, it was, and Minhyun watches all of this with a blank face, although Seongwoo can see the traces of his hardening resolve.

_Hook, line, and sinker._

“How’d you get this,” Minhyun hisses, demeanor turned hostile as soon as the video ends. Seongwoo wonders if he’d give his phone back, if Seongwoo asked.

“We have our ways,” Seongwoo says airily, knowing that mentioning Jonghyun had been set up—for the sole purpose of catching him in the act to lure Minhyun, apparently Jaehwan  _can_  think things through and had decided to do this sometime after the second robbery—would serve to jeopardize his mission.

Silence follows Seongwoo’s statement. It leaves Seongwoo to wonder if Minhyun would take the offer, or if he’d think of all of this as a fluke, but he finds himself spared from the thoughts as Minhyun sags his shoulders, a wary, but accepting look already flashing in his eyes.

“Fine,” Minhyun mutters begrudgingly, and hands Seongwoo back his phone with no little amount of reluctance.

Seongwoo is no psychologist, but it doesn’t take one to realize that he and Minhyun are far from getting off on the right foot; for one, the only reason why Minhyun decided to help him was because of a threat on behalf of someone evidently important to Minhyun—and Seongwoo, though you could call him a self-centered, egoistic bastard all you want, can understand where Minhyun’s coming from. But there’s a line between personal feelings and a job, and Seongwoo would rather not cross that line. He needs to remind himself that he’s dealing with an ex-criminal here, one who could sneak away with Seongwoo’s phone and maybe even trace the video if he wanted, no matter how mundane Hwang Minhyun’s dressed like at the present moment.

“We have a deal.” Seongwoo beams. The glumness of Minhyun’s face is a stark contrast from the blinding ray of Seongwoo’s wide-toothed smile. “I hope you've got a passport with you, because we’re leaving as soon as I book a ticket for the next available flight.” There’s no sign of Seongwoo joking from his words, and Minhyun’s left gaping, the tightly bound composure, for once, broken full-blown. Maybe Seongwoo should be proud of that.

“…You’re shitting me, right.”

“Nope! I didn’t even bring my luggage with me when my boss pulled the same shit so consider this as misplaced revenge.” Seongwoo grins toothily, much to the obvious dismay from Minhyun’s part. “Come on, I’ve got to brief you on the mission. Speaking of which, I can’t believe you decided to help out without even hearing the complete details; like, what if I was going to ask you to help me kill a president?”

The retired gem thief shrugs. “If you’re asking me to help impeach the president of this country, I suppose that wouldn’t be  _too_  bad.”

 

 

 

 

This time of the year, the full-booked plane tickets are to the places where the sun shines best; places where coastal residences are of abundance, places where the sea is glittering green and groups of families are scattered all around the beach, children building sandcastles and adults tanning under the sun’s rays.

(Seongwoo’s talking about places like Hawaii, Bali, or even Florida—though that’s a stretch, because don’t people go there for the amusement parks?)

Unsurprisingly, it proves to be easy for him to find two tickets to Seoul, expensive as it is for being first class seats. He and Minhyun depart the following morning, taking the first flight that leaves at the crack of dawn. It leaves little time for packing (in Minhyun’s case, though Seongwoo had been interested in seeing how light the curator traveled, and this he credited to past experience of being on the run from authorities), although there’s enough time for them to loiter around the airport, eating meals in the dead of the night and going window shopping (for Seongwoo; surprisingly, the detective is the one with an eye for the pricey things, as opposed to the thief.)

Time passes as fast as it possibly can when a stranger’s in company of another, and when the both of them board the plane, they’ve both known each other for a total of less than 12 hours.

In a mixture of curiousity and amusement, Seongwoo tries to conjure how his sixteen-year-old self would react had he been told that, in less than ten years, he’d be going on a plane with a stranger he barely knew. Knowing his past self, Seongwoo reckons he’d wave it off—after all, he’d always had an adventurous streak that bordered on lunacy. 

“I take it this isn’t your first time flying first class?” Seongwoo attempts to start a conversation after seeing how Minhyun seemed to be familiar with all the perks that came with flying first class; from the way the chair reclined to the little button to call upon the flight attendants.

Minhyun doesn’t look at him as he responds, too busy adjusting his seat’s reclining options until he was comfortable. “No.” The response is curt and to-the-point, though Seongwoo doesn’t know what he’d expected. It’s not as if Minhyun seemed the type to open up to strangers right after meeting them, especially if said stranger had practically blackmailed them into coercing to an offer.

“That’s… nice?”

“You don’t seem very sure of yourself.” A wry quirk settles on the edges of Minhyun’s lips. It’s the most emotion Seongwoo has seen from the retired thief.

Something Seongwoo dislikes in a conversation is when he’s resorted to having the lower hand. It’s a dislike that stems from how used he is to controlling the conversation; he’s the one questioning instead of being questioned, and his first instinct when someone tries to turn the topic on him is to pout. Far from the professional front Jaehwan can only wish Seongwoo had, but disappointing Jaehwan isn’t what one could consider a new development. 

“Whatever,” Seongwoo mutters sulkily, opting to asking the flight attendant for a glass of wine instead. Unhealthy since he hasn’t eaten anything that could be considered as ‘proper breakfast’, unless chocolate ice cream constutes as that (but he doubts it—though that’d be welcomed, he’s not going to lie), but he’s going to die one day anyway. A glass of wine isn’t going to change that, unless one of his enemies managed to slip some poison into it, which he doubts; he’s just being ridiculous. (Or is he? —but then again, after taking a sip of the drink and containing his grimace because  _since when was wine supposed to be_ that  _strong,_  he’s just being dramatic. Really.)

 

 

 

 

A chauffeur is waiting for them when the both of them have disembarked from the plane. Seongwoo’s worked with this chauffeur before on several cases, and gladly goes down a brief trip down memory lane on their occasional liaisons; not necessarily appropriate workplace behavior, but the both of them keep things under wraps and unattached. Last time Seongwoo’s heard, the chauffeur has even began seeing someone (seriously, not the ‘we’re screwing around but there’s no labels so no pressure’ thing he had going with Seongwoo), and Seongwoo’s only complain to that is,  _why haven’t_ I _been introduced?_

“Daniel!” There’s a thrall to Seongwoo’s words, the words complimented by a grin so wide it hurts his cheeks.

Kang Daniel, nowhere short of awkward at the presence of his ex… something, makes a show of tugging at the buttons of his jet black uniform. The uniform looks like something a spy would wear more than what an actual spy wears (as proven by the casual attire that runs rampant amongst the intelligence department of the organization). 

No matter how visible Daniel’s nervous habits are, however, a smile that makes his eyes disappear into crescents is still present on his face. That’s the thing about Daniel—he’s almost always smiling, even when there’s no reason for him to be. Seongwoo’s watched Titanic once with Daniel, on a whim, and while Seongwoo didn’t burst into tears, Daniel still grinned from ear to ear from the beginning of the movie until the moment Jack died; it was at that moment that Seongwoo figured he could put on The Shining and still have Daniel smile like an idiot even at the goriest moments.

“Hello, Mr. Ong,” Daniel greets, tone still guarded even as the smile he wears says otherwise.

“Come on, there’s no need for formalities with me.” Seongwoo rolls his eyes, and he opens his arms, readying himself for a hug that never comes. It leaves him to pout as he pointedly ignores Minhyun’s wry smirk. “Wow, okay. I guess I’m not even deserving of a hug anymore,” he complains, and even then, Daniel refuses to relent. “Suit yourself.” With awkward movements, Seongwoo returns his arms to their former position, a metaphorical dark cloud looming above him.

“Do you have any bags for me to carry?” Daniel prompts, completely disregarding Seongwoo’s previous fuss. Seongwoo splutters, resembling a fish taken straight out of the water, while Minhyun shakes his head even as his fingers are curled on the handle of his suitcase. Daniel’s eyes are drawn towards the suitcase, and as he moves to take it out of Minhyun’s grasp, the man waves him off.

“No need for that, please.” Minhyun flashes Daniel a disarming smile.

The crowd continues to walk (or run, in some cases) all around them, the people consisting of large groups of families to businessmen traveling light and in solitude. Though the chatter and announcements make for noise, between the three of them, nobody speaks—at least, until Daniel breaks the silence, still wearing that ever-present smile.

“Well, let’s not loiter, shall we?”

 

 

 

 

Unsurprisingly, Daniel drives them to headquarters, not complying to any of Seongwoo’s (whined) requests to stop by a McDonalds drive through, or even to go to a gas station because he really,  _really_  needs to pee. (“You flew first class. You’re trying to tell me you didn’t bother to take a piss there?” Daniel had asked, much to Seongwoo’s chagrin and Minhyun’s mirth.)

Jaehwan awaits them at his office, a pensive look drawn across his features. He has files stacked on his desk, not a single paper out of sight. The look is uncharacteristically serious of him, and that coupled with the heavy silence does nothing to alleviate any of Seongwoo’s worries.

“Did the thief strike again while I was away?” Seongwoo tries, and Jaehwan shakes his head to deny the guess. “Someone spit on your coffee?”

Not so subtly, Minhyun jabs Seongwoo’s ribs with his elbow. It isn’t too harsh, but there’s enough force behind it to remind Seongwoo to behave. (Which, by the way, is totally uncool—Minhyun has the guts to defend Jaehwan, a stranger, instead of letting Seongwoo live?  _Ugh_.)

“Don’t worry,” Jaehwan says after a silence long enough to cover the intro of a song. “I just had a thought. If it turns out to be relevant, I’ll share later—”

“To hell with that!” Seongwoo’s surprised by his own outburst. Judging by the way Minhyun stiffens, he is, too. “That’s never stopped you before. Don’t think I can’t remember the time you gave out intel that turned out to be false, even when the source hadn’t been confirmed when you’d told me that.” He huffs.

“Maybe I’ve learnt from that,” Jaehwan mutters underneath his breath, and Seongwoo doesn’t quite catch onto his words, leaving him to peer at his boss in confusion. “Learn to control that temper of yours.” He waves his hands airily and sobers up, mustering a very Jaehwan-like smirk and looking more like the Jaehwan that Seongwoo knows than he had less than ten seconds ago. 

As glaringly obvious as it is, Seongwoo’s not convinced, but he lets the matter drop. Instead of pursuing the topic, he gestures Minhyun’s way. “Whatever. This is the guy, by the way.” 

Minhyun sniffs, unpleased at being referred to as ‘the guy’, but having known Seongwoo for several hours now, understands it’s more or less futile to argue with the eccentric billionaire.

“I assume you’re the one who asked him to fetch me,” Minhyun speaks up, the strange mixture of boredom and acceptance on his pretty face. “I’ll have you know I don’t appreciate being threatened.”

“You say that as your words convey a threat of your own.” Jaehwan intertwines his hands, and locks them underneath his chin, elbows propped onto the table. “If the two of you can work well enough, you won’t have to worry about the... threat, at any rate. I give you my word, Hwang Minhyun.” 

The retired criminal narrows his eyes. “We’ll see about that.” 

Seongwoo gapes at the exchange, although mostly, the gape is directed at Jaehwan. “Wow, who knew you had it in you to be so serious. And official. I thought that side of you was an urban legend.” 

Just like that, it’s as if Jaehwan’s previous composure is shattered, and in its place is the Jaehwan that Seongwoo knows so well; the Jaehwan that’s completely done with his (Seongwoo’s) shit. 

“Go solve the damned case, Ong!”

 

 

 

 

As much as Seongwoo hates to admit it, Minhyun isn’t as terrible as he’d expected the infamous man himself to be. 

Maybe it’s the stigma he has against criminals (even retired ones who now sell art—hopefully legally) in general, or maybe it’s because they hadn’t got off on the right foot; at any rate, he’d expected Minhyun to be rusty in the ‘thinking’ department, because what do art curators do? Seongwoo’s not sure on that, but something he’s sure of is they don’t require the intellect behind planning heists or solving crimes. Memorize the names of the art and their creators, maybe, but there’s a fine line between memorizing and solving something. 

Against his initial expectations, Minhyun isn’t rusty; not at all. He doesn’t fall behind Seongwoo, and Seongwoo is self-aware, to say the least. He knows his thinking is fast-paced, and often jumps from an idea to another, sometimes without figuring out the whole variables in a certain thought. It’s a confusing process that works for him and not for (nearly) anyone else, but while he’s received odd looks from Minhyun, Minhyun never complains. Hell, he never even  _asks_  about what Seongwoo means by a certain scrawl, or asks Seongwoo to explain his theories—and it’s not a matter of pride, because Minhyun contributes, and even points out some gaps in his theories when found. 

So, yeah. The guy’s  _good_.

“What happened when you checked the CCTVs?” Minhyun asks, but he isn’t looking at Seongwoo. He’s observing a picture of one of the stolen jewels, something not unlike interest glowing fervently in his eyes.

“There was nothing. Zilch, nada,” Seongwoo complains, even as he turns a photograph he’d been holding in his hand 180 degrees for no particular reason. Still, he squints at the rotated picture.

“Do you reckon he’s got someone working with him?” At Seongwoo’s blank look, Minhyun frowns. “Come on, don’t tell me you didn’t take in the possibility of him having a hacker on his side?”

Seongwoo rakes his hand through his hair. “Fuck, I knew I was missing something,” he says, mostly to himself. “We’re possibly not looking for one person to apprehend, then, but two? A guy in the chair?”

This time, it’s Minhyun’s turn to look bewildered. “A guy in the chair? Do you use that term?”

“Well, yeah. Why not? Sounds cool, doesn’t it?”

To his credit, Minhyun doesn’t say anything degrading; in fact, he doesn’t say anything at all, and their half-assed conversation burns out in a slow, painful death.

Minhyun takes the laptop from the chair, and begins to type, almost as if in a trance, in a near-immediate sequence. Seongwoo looks on, half-tempted between walking over to see what Minhyun was doing, and in the end, curiosity takes the crown; so he walks behind Minhyun’s chair and leans over Minhyun’s slightly hunched back, peering curiously at the screen now littered with words and symbols Seongwoo can’t recognize for the life of him.

“…What are you doing?” Seongwoo whispers, just because this seems like the perfect time for whispering.

“Figuring out who’s our hacker,” Minhyun responds, straight to the point. “Be quiet, I need to focus.”

In a rare display of obedience, Seongwoo pipes down, leaving Minhyun to his keyboard smashing (because that can’t be typing, right?) and computer tricks. And, unless it was a trick of the light, Minhyun even smiled—gratefully—for a slight second before it’s wiped away in an instant by the stoic, straight line of his lips.

(He  _really_  wants to say something about it, maybe something about how surprised he is over the fact that Minhyun can even  _smile_ , but after seeing the concentrated furrow of Minhyun’s brows, Seongwoo decides that’s a comment best saved for later.)

“Found him,” Minhyun says, accompanied by no small sense of pride only a few minutes later. Seongwoo nearly jolts out of his seat because of how quick Minhyun is, but keeps himself in check just in time as the man himself turns to give Seongwoo a look. “I’ve tracked down their address. What’s our next move?”

Seongwoo reads the mapped out location on the monitor. His mind’s already calculating the gas fares they’ll need to get there, but money is far from being a problem to him. “We pay them a visit, of course.”

 

 

 

 

Their hacker resides in an apartment building that’s nowhere short of being called ‘shady’, with its location in the outskirts of a red light district and the barbed, wired fences that make it look more like a detention center than a residence. 

“Sure you got the right place?” Seongwoo has a hand shielding his eyes from the sun, the side of his index finger flushed against his brow. “I was expecting something flashier.”

“Something more like you, I’m guessing,” Minhyun says. Seongwoo is shameless with his admittance; a boisterous round of laughter, unbefitting for their current situation, but nobody’s watching. (The CCTV cameras in this area don’t work anymore, and are more accessories meant to scare away those who aren’t aware of their real state more than a proper security measure.)

“Very funny,” Seongwoo deadpans, sounding anything but entertained. “Think we should knock on the door of every apartment?”—at Minhyun’s eye roll, Seongwoo quickly interjects his own statement—“Have I told you about this one time I did that when I was trying to find a serial killer? I bet you can’t imagine the look this old lady had when she heard there was a serial killer in the building, but that look’s nowhere as priceless as the cop with me when he found out that  _she_  was the killer all along!”

“The grandma’s the serial killer?” Minhyun double checks Seongwoo’s words.

Seongwoo’s eyes shine with excitement. “Yeah! One of my most popular cases, for obvious reasons. I have a whole file on it back in the office if you want to take a look.”

What Seongwoo expects: Minhyun to flat out refuse the offer, maybe add a blithering comment of ‘ha, would you really think I’d do that, idiot?’ for his own satisfaction.

What Minhyun does: a pensive look of contemplation merges underneath the shadows of his features, and he nods. Actually  _nods_. “I’ll be sure to take you up on that offer sometimes. It sounds interesting.”

“…You’re letting me live,” Seongwoo chokes out, and the effect is immediate. Minhyun actually  _flushes_  in embarrassment, and gives Seongwoo a nasty glare that says it all: “I regret being nice to you.” Seongwoo is paraphrasing.

 “Forget anything I’ve said,” Minhyun is quick to comment. He looks at his phone—an iPhone 7 model, and the case is a soft, jet black, no imperfections seen unlike Seongwoo’s phone with the cracked monitor after he’d dropped it during a chase—for a few seconds, and pockets it when he’s finished. “I know their apartment number. 10A.”

 Seongwoo whistles. “I hope they’ve got working elevators.” He eyes the building, and with the run down, barely held together state it is in, Seongwoo has doubts in his own statement.

 

 

 

 

The elevators are out of order.

When opening the door to the emergency staircase, Seongwoo grunts with effort. “I can’t believe this is the first exercise I’m getting in  _months_.”

Ahead of him, Minhyun’s already on the third floor. He peeks down, and Seongwoo can only see Minhyun’s head. “Stop complaining, we haven’t got all day.” His voice sounds distant from that height. 

“Easy for you to say.” Seongwoo trudges through the stairs. Horror claws at his chest upon the realization that he’s got nine (and a half, considering he’s only halfway through the first floor) more floors to go. “ _How_  are you fit? Don’t art curators just… sit around or show people art all day? How the fuck are you in better shape than I am?” 

Minhyun, gesturing at his lithe, but obviously well-toned body: “I work out.” 

Seongwoo,  _not_  blushing and definitely  _not_  trying to leer at Minhyun: “Oh.”

 

 

 

 

A little boy greets them at the door, looking around ten years old and completely unassuming. If it weren’t for his face, still holding a childlike innocence to it despite the distrustful set of his mouth, Seongwoo would’ve mistaken him as older; what with that height, limbs lanky and awkward. 

“Can I help you?” The boy chirps, though guarded suspicion that’s bereft of a child leaves traces in his eyes. To some extent, Seongwoo figures his pleasantry is contrived. 

“Yes, you can,” Minhyun answers, and he doesn’t even need to bend his knees too much to meet eye to eye with the boy. “My friend and I”—Seongwoo gives a little wave that goes unanswered—“are your dad’s college friends.” A flat-out lie, and a risk they’ll have to take. For all they know, the boy’s father might’ve been estranged. “Is he here right now?” 

The boy wearing the red shirt two sizes too big for him shakes his head. “No, he’s at work. He only goes home after dinner,” he says, matter-of-factly. Interestingly enough, there’s a hint of an accent to his voice, and his pronunciation is slurred together. 

Him and Minhyun share a look. Seongwoo shrugs. 

“We’ll return later, then—” 

“Guanlin, what’s taking you so long—oh, who are you?” 

In Seongwoo’s years of experience, he figures he has seen all the peculiarities the world (or at least, South Korea) has to offer. Upon being confronted by the sudden appearance of the boy with the bubblegum lips and a sweater in the brightest shade of orange that reeks of fashion terrorist and the bad, overtly hipster kind of fashion sense, Seongwoo has his belief stomped on, crushed, shattered into little pieces, and kicked to a fictitious curb. 

“Guanlin, were these guys bothering you?” He frowns. Seongwoo has seen puppies looking more intimidating. 

“No!” Guanlin, the boy, denies. He looks at the other male with a look in his eyes that can’t be anything but starstruck admiration. “They were just asking me about dad!” 

Seemingly satisfied by Guanlin’s answer, Jihoon isn’t outright hostile with Seongwoo and Minhyun, but his shoulders are tense, as if he’s anticipating a moment to come when he’ll have to block a blow from either of them. Flashes of the neighbourhood’s surroundings return full force to Seongwoo’s mind, assaulting him with the grim realization that in a shoddy location like this, these kids are raised to expect the worst. When Seongwoo was Jihoon’s age, the only reason he hadn’t been totally naïve was because of his uncle’s habit of taking him to work—his uncle was (and still is) a commissioner general—and showing Seongwoo just how terrible humans could be.

It helped shape him to be the person he is now. The Ong Seongwoo who makes it a personal mission to help those around him who aren’t as well off as he is (and that category contains an overwhelming amount of ordinary citizens. Not everyone is lucky enough to be born into a wealthy and well-reputable family. Seongwoo is one of the lucky ones. 

“If it’s important, you can leave your message now,” Jihoon informs them, an arm curled around Guanlin’s shoulders, tugging him closer to him and away from the two strange men. If the situation hadn’t been serious, Seongwoo would’ve laughed, because Guanlin is almost as tall as Jihoon. Give or take a year, he would engulf Jihoon’s height with his. After all, Guanlin  _has_  to be growing, still. “I’ll relay it.” 

“Actually,” Minhyun starts, a funny looking glint mirrored by the light. “I think we might benefit from a conversation, if you wouldn’t mind—Jihoon, was it?”

Jihoon draws Guanlin closer to him. Without being told, the younger of them moves to hide between Jihoon, although that does little good, considering the ever-closing gap between their heights. 

“Alright,” Jihoon says, warily. He eyes the two figures standing outside his door with distrust. 

“It won’t take too long,” Seongwoo interjects. When Jihoon focuses on him, Seongwoo draws the most genuine fake smile he can muster. From the way Jihoon sneers, it’s not working.

The boy with the odd fashion sense steps aside, and Guanlin nearly trips behind him, only able to regain his footing by gripping onto the hem of Jihoon’s sweater. “Come inside. My neighbours will start wondering what’s up.” The little tidbit, at the end of Jihoon’s mini-tirade, is directed to Jihoon himself; at least, that’s what Seongwoo figures, judging by the way the last few words are muttered instead of said, and Jihoon had peered his head at the surrounding corridors, just to see that none of the other occupants of the floor have gone out of their way to ask about the ruckus. 

Which Seongwoo has his doubts on, because it’s not as if him and Minhyun were kicking up a fuss. They were just being… persuasive, that’s the term.

Inside Jihoon’s apartment (“Mind your heads, the doorframe’s low!”), Seongwoo finds it just as he’d expected. Filled with little trinkets that serve to characterize the living space, even if the wall paint is cracked and the television looks like something out of 2005. There are family pictures on the wall, and in some, those present in the picture are Jihoon, an older male with kind, trusting eyes that Seongwoo assumes is Jihoon’s father, and a woman with striking resemblance to Jihoon. Guanlin is barely in any of the pictures, except for ones that look more recent than the others; he seems to have only started being a part of family pictures by the time Jihoon is around Guanlin’s current age, give or take a year or so.

Though Seongwoo is smart, it doesn’t take someone of genius intellect to form a conclusion that Jihoon and Guanlin are not biologically related. Their facial features are distinct, and with Guanlin’s speaking mannerisms, the likehood of him being foreign is greater than the chance of him and Jihoon being biological brothers.

Adopted or not, Jihoon is protective of Guanlin; some things just can’t be faked, and the concern that Jihoon shows for the younger, whether it’s his worry over two strange men visiting their household or Guanlin wanting to stick around to overhear a conversation that Minhyun has pushed to becoming ‘private’ (the attempts Jihoon is making to ensure Guanlin stays in his room is hilarious, or maybe that’s  just Seongwoo, because for some reason he enjoys seeing Guanlin being baited by the prospect of having movie nights with his Jihoon  _hyung_  if he’d only stay in his room for ten minutes). It isn’t hard to miss how Jihoon’s eyes grow tender when he looks at Guanlin, and how they harden just as quickly when faced with Seongwoo and Minhyun. On the same wavelength, it’s just as easy to see the kiss that Jihoon leaves on Guanlin’s forehead before the younger sprints off to his room isn’t a show of fake love; Seongwoo’s seen his fair share of love, and knows enough to know when someone is lying or not about affections.

What he just saw? Seongwoo would eat his own fist if that’d been faked.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” Jihoon asks as soon as Guanlin is out of ear range. His eyes linger on the door to Guanlin’s bedroom for a few moments too long, giving Seongwoo the impression of an overly worried mother hen. 

Minhyun drives his hand inside the pocket on his undercoat. A few moments later, he finds what he’s looking for, and presents a picture of a glittering emerald jewel to Jihoon. “Is this familiar to you?”

The moment of hesitation before Jihoon responds is enough for Seongwoo to find his answer.

“No.” Jihoon looks away from the picture a beat too fast. “It’s a glittering diamond, I guess? But in green? What does that have to do with me?” He scowls at the men seated across him.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Seongwoo says, presenting Jihoon a thin smile, completely unlike the look of friendliness he’d gone for earlier. “We know your involvement in this, Park Jihoon.”

The mask Jihoon had been wearing chips. His fists clench on his lap, and Seongwoo feels the momentary surge of pity, before giving himself a strict reminder he’s working; there’ll be a time for pity later, but right now, he needs to set the feelings aside and focus.

“I wasn’t involved,” Jihoon says through clenched teeth.

If anything, Seongwoo admires Jihoon’s effort.

“Ranked first place in your school. Your IT teacher made sure to put in good words for you. Exceptionally talented, and has a lot of potential—that’s what he wrote, yes?” Seongwoo is simply lining down the facts, but Jihoon grows pasty, already pale skin going sheet white.

The fuming boy lifts his head, and gives a defiant nod. “Yes. But I had no part in, well, whatever you guys are investigating right now. And how could you even make sure it was me? Not saying it  _was_  me!” His cherub cheeks turn piping red, and he bows his head, drawing his gaze to his lap. He probably wants to curse, or at least, that’s the general vibe Seongwoo’s getting.

“Just tell us the truth, Jihoon,” Minhyun murmurs, although there’s no trace of pity in him at all. Only a clinical, cold kind of observation, and it’s enough to tickle goosebumps on Seongwoo’s forearms. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.” Suddenly, it’s not so difficult for Seongwoo to imagine Minhyun during his prime; encountering those who dared to defy him and giving them a tantalizing smirk, and saying the same things he’s saying now. Minhyun is dangerous, and if Seongwoo had his doubts, all of them are scattered in the wind.

“I’d rather not do it at all, thanks.” Jihoon gives them a pinched, sour look. “Whatever it is you think I did—I didn’t do it.”

For a fleeting moment, Minhyun says nothing. Only stares at Jihoon impassively, not even making eye contact with Seongwoo who tries, desperate and futile, to catch Minhyun’s attention without drawing alert to Jihoon.

“Hard way it is,” Minhyun says at last, sounding neither happy nor unhappy about the prospect of doing things in the more troubling way. “What’s in it for you?”

“…Sorry?”

“What’s in it for you,” Minhyun repeats, rolling his eyes. “Are you helping a thief out of the goodness of your own heart? Is that it?”

Abruptly, Jihoon rises from his seat, and splutters indignantly. “I told you I wasn’t involved!”

“It can’t be your father,” and there Minhyun continues saying, completely ignoring Jihoon’s prior outburst. “His records state he works on construction sites—leaving virtually no time to do some of these heists that are done before he even gets home.”

“Leave my father out of this!”

“Can’t be your brother either. He’s too young,” Minhyun dismisses, and Seongwoo’s not sure whether he’s oblivious enough not to notice the venomous look from Jihoon, or if he’s ignoring it; either way, at this point of time, Minhyun is a dead man walking more than anything. 

That was the last straw for Park Jihoon. He grabs Minhyun by his collar, honorifics thrown and forgotten, emotions taken over by the heat of the moment. It makes for a comical sight, what with Minhyun being a head taller than Jihoon, but Jihoon’s glare is ferocious as he glowers up at the older male. “Leave my family out of this,” Jihoon hisses.

Minhyun barely blinks. “Touchy subject, I see. My apologies.” He doesn’t even sound remotely apologetic. “Let go of me.”

Just like that, as if a switch has been flipped, Jihoon’s fingers tremble as he hastily releases draws his hand from Minhyun’s collar, as if the fabric burns through his nimble skin. He gnaws on his lower lip, and his fingers twitch at his side. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, sounding disbelieved that he’d dared to do that in the first place. With stiff, near lifeless movements, he sinks back into his seat.

“ _I’m_  the one who should be sorry, Jihoon,” Minhyun says softly, and after a moment of contemplation, offers a hand to Jihoon. Though confused, Jihoon grasps Minhyun’s hand with his, eyes desperately searching for any sign of peculiarities in Minhyun’s expression. “That was insensitive of me.”

( _Minhyun, you manipulative little bastard_ , is all Seongwoo is able to think as Jihoon hangs onto Minhyun’s every word as if they were the gospel truth.)

“I was just taken aback,” Jihoon utters, defending himself. He seems to realize he has been holding Minhyun’s hand for longer than five seconds now, and hastily retreats his right hand, clenching and unclenching it into a fist. “I—I’ll admit it. I helped the thief, but it wasn’t because of what you might think.”

“And what do you suggest we might be thinking right now?” Seongwoo leans forward, head tilted in curiousity.

“W-Well,” Jihoon stutters out. It’s really not helping his case at all, but Jihoon looks so much like a deer caught in the headlights, nerves ready to scatter like petals at any time, that Seongwoo doesn’t think pointing it out would make for a good idea. “That I was up to no good. That I was helping out someone for what looks like barely any reason at all.”

“What was your reason, then?” Minhyun’s tone has shifted into something gentle. Gone is the cold interrogator, in his stead a man filled with concern for someone—most likely half his age—who’s in a bad place right now.

From his experience, though, Seongwoo knows there  _must_  be a reason. A good one, at that, because every villain has their motive. (But having to call Park Jihoon a villain, even if he isn’t up to any good like a law abiding citizen would, doesn’t make him feel like he’s any better.)

Sometimes, a petty thief steals to supply food for their family. Sometimes, a murderer strikes because they’d been betrayed by someone they thought they could rely their trust in. Sometimes, the man behind the bars has a story that shines a light on him, a light that makes one think, what is the line separating between a criminal and a product of the wrongs of the system?

Park Jihoon, with his ratty apartment where the floorboards groan with almost every step, with his secondhand, worn-out clothes, has a reason for doing what it is he’s doing. Seongwoo can spell it out, the words aching to be poured from the tip of his tongue, but it won’t come to that.

“I needed the money,” and just like that, the truth is said, and Jihoon’s shoulders relax as if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders. “My dad can’t support the family on his own. His job, it doesn’t- doesn’t pay well.” As he confesses, he makes sure to look at Seongwoo and Minhyun, and while his expression is earnest, there’s an undertone of malice to his words; but with malice, comes fear.

Fear of what is to come. Fear of being taken away from his family. Fear of his future, now that he’s caught.

“My family, we…” Jihoon trails off, tongue poking out of the slit of his mouth. “We have more on our plate than we can handle,” he admits, ruefully. “With the money dad makes, he should only be able to support himself and—”

Jihoon never quite finishes his sentence, but the unspoken words hang in the air like miasma. Amidst his inner turmoil, Minhyun and Seongwoo look at each other—the latter at loss on how to proceed, knowing the fragile psyche of a teenager is in their hands right now (and to be honest, they aren’t very capable hands). Minhyun purses his lips, and shakes his head.  _Let him finish_ , his eyes speak.

“Someone had to help.” A conviction that hadn’t been prevalent before shows itself. Jihoon’s will grows stronger, visibly, what with the hardening of his eyes. “So, I started getting money for my family.”

“Where does your dad think the money comes from?” Seongwoo barely notices he’s said the words until Jihoon looks as if he’s on the verge of closing in on himself.

To his surprise, Jihoon is stronger than he looks. (It isn’t a very difficult thing to achieve, because Jihoon is the textbook definition of a flower boy; cherub cheeks with a faint pink glow, pouty lips, pretty eyes.)

“He thinks I’ve been taking an internship,” Jihoon says, although his voice wavers. His adam’s apple bobs, and his face twists like he’s forced a spoonful of salt to his mouth, and deeper into his system. “What are you going to do to me?” He looks at the both of them, lingering his eyes on each of them for a moment before looking at the other. His hands have begun to rub together at the face of his knees.

“Nothing, if you cooperate,” Seongwoo says. “Just answer the rest of the questions honestly and stop hacking. It’s illegal.”

“Where am I supposed to get the money now?!” Jihoon splutters indignantly. His cheeks are turning red with fury.

“Get a proper job?” Minhyun offers, dryly. “That’s what the rest of us do.”

 _Yeah, like how you were a thief, as if_ that’s  _a legal profession_ , Seongwoo laments in his head, though the impassive mask of his face shows no signs of such thought.

“I can’t do that!” Jihoon panics, and rises to his feet. “Someone has to take care of Guanlin, and that person is me.” He points a finger at himself, accentuating each word with a finely timed jab. 

“We understand that you have to support your family, but the law—” 

“Fuck the law,” Jihoon grits out, and he lets his arms drop to his sides. “I know you.” He looks at Seongwoo as he says this, and Seongwoo can’t say he’s surprised. His infamy tends to do that. “You’re Ong Seongwoo. You’re rich—you were  _born_  rich—and you’ve never had to struggle with money your entire life.” The bitterness of Jihoon’s words pierce Seongwoo like little pinpricks, and Seongwoo desperately wants to say something,  _anything_  to defend himself, but how can he when Jihoon is only saying the truth?

“I don’t struggle with money, you’re right,” he says, after too many beats of silence. Both Minhyun and Jihoon’s eyes are on him, scrutinizing his every move, and he feels as if he’s been thrown underneath a microscope. “But I have my own fair share of problems. They might not be like yours, but I’ve got my own shit to deal with. The world doesn’t stop turning just because you’re struggling, Jihoon.”

“That’s rich, coming from the man who acts like the world revolves around him—”

“You know nothing about me,” Seongwoo growls, and breathes in deeply to remind himself that he’s here on a job, not a social visit, and letting his emotions get the better of him is ideally the number one thing to do in situations like these. “If your problem is that you don’t think you can get a job because someone needs to take care of Guanlin, have I got news for you: daycares exist. You could even leave him with a friend, or take him to your workplace, if you’re so worried.  _People will help you._  Have some more faith in the people around you, Jihoon. You don’t have to carry the weight of everything on your shoulders,” Seongwoo whispers, and gets up on his feet. His hands meet Jihoon’s, and when the younger does nothing, even when Seongwoo grips Jihoon’s palms tightly with his own.

“Help me,” Jihoon chokes out, and his eyes brim with unshed tears. He stubbornly blinks them away, keeping the waterworks at bay. “If you think I need to have faith in the people around me—help me.”

Uneasiness settles like a package of rocks on Seongwoo’s chest. Not because he’s uncomfortable at the prospect of helping Jihoon, because his job entails helping everyone, even strangers, but because of the circumstances that revolves around Jihoon’s life; his lack of trust in his environment, lacking enough that he’ll trust a stranger to help him instead of someone he actually  _knows_ , but at the same time, Seongwoo can’t blame Jihoon for feeling this way. His neighbourhood screams,  _kill or be killed_. Maybe the words aren’t meant literally—he’s never seen at the mortality reports around this borough—but in a place like this, it’s every man for themselves. It’s a wonder how Jihoon turned out to be so loyal to his younger brother, adopted or not, and the knowledge of that is enough to convince Seongwoo that underneath it all, Jihoon is  _good_.

“I promise.” The words feel light, although the lightness isn’t there because it’s empty. It’s light because Seongwoo is in his element, saving others, and even though he has a connection with the person he’s looking for, Jihoon is someone who needs help. Someone Seongwoo can  _save_ , because Seongwoo has seen enough of people’s sufferings in his lifetime that to know he could be able to save someone from further experience of it (there is no doubt Jihoon has suffered, there’s no way he hasn’t, with everything he’s been through), maybe even safe an entire  _family_ —he’d take the chance in a heartbeat.

Finally, Jihoon smiles. It’s small and restrained, as if he’s still doubting his very decision, but it’s more genuine than every other smile Seongwoo has shown him. “I’ll hold you to it.”

 Jihoon takes a few minutes to calm down, and both Seongwoo and Minhyun wait, the latter more patient than the former. Seongwoo has probably used up all the ‘mushy and nice’ emotions he has festered for the day (or maybe a lifetime), but Minhyun is steady, like he always is; even made tea for Jihoon, who was baffled after taking a cautionary sip from the china. 

(“This is the best tea I’ve ever tasted. Are you sure you’re using the tea in the kitchen?” He looks like he’s on the verge of asking Minhyun to reveal the contents of his bag, as if Minhyun would’ve brought a packet of tea along with him.

Though Minhyun has a hefty collection of tea back home—Seongwoo saw them for himself, and is still amazed by the man’s passion for tea, of all things—he hadn’t been able to bring any with him. “I would’ve used something different if I could’ve,” Minhyun sniffs.

He isn’t very pleased with the tea in Jihoon’s kitchen, not at all.)

“Who have you been working with?” Seongwoo questions, phone recording every second of their conversation.

“I don’t know,” Jihoon confesses, and Minhyun frowns.

“How don’t you know?”

“He’s never shown me his identity.” Jihoon shrugs, and takes another sip from his tea.

The usage of the pronoun draws Seongwoo’s interest. “You’re calling the thief with ‘he’, so you at least know we’re after a male?”

Jihoon finishes his tea before answering Seongwoo’s inquiry. “Well, yeah. He distorts his face and covers up whenever he needs to talk to me, but it’s a male, obviously. His figure says so.”

(Then again—Jaehwan had used  _he_  while talking about the thief, Seongwoo now remembers. The memory comes up so suddenly in his brain, and he’s wondering if he’d projected his newfound information into his own head, but Seongwoo is confident enough in his memory to give a firm no to that assumption. Jaehwan  _had_  said ‘he’, and all of Seongwoo’s detective senses are tingling. He needs to ask Jaehwan about this when he meets him.)

“Huh.”

Afterwards, Jihoon shows them to the door, Guanlin following behind him like a duckling after Jihoon had told him he was allowed to go outside his room. (Guanlin had practically sprinted outside, yelling about how much he’d missed his Jihoon  _hyung_ in the thirty minute span they were away, and proceeded to throw himself on the older like an oversized pet.) Jihoon hasn’t anything further to tell them, though Seongwoo can’t figure if it’s because doing so would’ve meant Jihoon needed to do more research on certain things, or if Jihoon is holding something back. For all the trust he’s placing in Jihoon, Seongwoo can only hope it isn’t the latter.

 

 

 

 

“Is this where I’ll be staying?”

Minhyun needs to look up to eye the extravagant building with impressible height in front of him, all black painted, high walls, and glass windows. A modern castle, Ong Seongwoo’s abode.

Seongwoo drove them to his home immediately after their visit to Park Jihoon, saying something about how they could talk to Jaehwan again tomorrow; night had befallen upon them, though an empty circle shape remains, surrounded by the stars, where the moon is not. The moon is supposed to be there, Seongwoo supposes, had it not been for pollution and other kinds of global crisis’s. 

The sky, a murky black littered with little white spots, is reflected onto Seongwoo’s swimming pool. Swimming now would feel like swimming amongst the stars, but Seongwoo would prefer not getting hypothermia.

“Yeah,” Seongwoo says, the upper corner of his lip twitching wryly. “I’m sure you’ve seen better.”

“Yeah,” Minhyun mirrors him, smirking at Seongwoo’s gape at the unexpected response. “I was a thief, remember? Luxury isn’t a stranger.”

Seongwoo pouts. “This has got to be the first time someone wasn’t impressed by my mansion.”

“Haven’t you ever had a gala here? I’d have thought your fellow socialites would’ve had the same experience as mine with wealth.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never held a gala,” Seongwoo says. “If I ever had one, I don’t think I’d invite my fellow socialites. Most of them were my parents’ friends. I might invite you, though,” he surmises, rubbing his chin with the pad of his thumb.

“Me?”

“Yeah, you.” Seongwoo leans his head back, and tilts it to look at Minhyun. When he gets a look at the other, Minhyun’s already staring back at him, an unreadable look in his eyes. “You’re not bad company, you know.”

“Thanks,” Minhyun says, dryly. “You’re not so bad yourself… you know, blackmailing aside.”

Seongwoo rolls his eyes, but he breaks out into a ghost of a smile.

“I’m going to ignore that last bit.”

“You can’t. It comes with the first.”

 

 

 

 

Life hates him, because why else would he be hearing ‘Toxic’ by Britney Spears first thing in the morning?

(Okay, so Seongwoo was the one who had chosen his own ringtone, but that doesn’t mean he wants his wakeup call to be Britney Spears. God bless her and her old music, though; those were good times.)

“What the fuck,” he says, his first words in the day being crass and vulgar. Bleary-eyed, his fingers feel around his bedside table for his alarm clock, plucking it and placing it in front of his face to read the time.  _04:38AM._

With a groan, he uses his elbows to prop himself into a sitting position, and slams his alarm clock back on the bedside table. His phone continues to play Toxic, having repeated the same few lines over and over again the way ringtones do, until it finally stops when an angry thumb presses itself onto the ‘answer call’ button.

He hasn’t even checked the caller ID, but whoever it is, is bound to get a half-assed lecture from him. Half-assed because he’s in the odd state between sleeping and being awake and he can’t bother to force himself to be more productive, a lecture because all of his friends—and the list isn’t a party list, considering Seongwoo’s occupation and Seongwoo himself—should be informed about his strict ‘ _don’t wake me up before 6AM, fuckers’_  rule.

“What?” He speaks into his phone’s in-built microphone, voice thick with sleep.

“Sir, Seongwoo Sir!”

The person on the other end of the line is unfamiliar, and Seongwoo takes a moment to place who it is—slurred words, high-pitched voice of a child—but when he  _does_  realize who it is, he jolts, fully awake and alert.

Guanlin is on the phone with him, and whatever it is he’s calling about, it can’t be good. Before he and Minhyun left, yesterday, Seongwoo made sure to leave behind his phone number—after giving a pointed stare at each of them, forcing them to repeat the words, “Emergencies only.”

Though Jihoon looked more bored than anything when reciting, Guanlin was terrified, and probably took Seongwoo’s words to heart.

“It’s Jihoon  _hyung_ ,” Guanlin says, and Seongwoo finally notices something else about Guanlin’s voice he hadn’t been able to hear earlier; a jagged quality, like a poorly sharpened dagger.

“Calm down,” Seongwoo instructs sternly, the grip he has on his phone making his knuckles bleed white. “Take a deep breath”—when he hears the sharp sound of inhale on the other line, he figures Guanlin must’ve taken his advice—“and let it out. Tell me what happened.”

When Guanlin speaks, after the tense smoke of silence, Seongwoo barely stops himself from breaking into a state of distress.

“Jihoon  _hyung_  is missing!”

 

 

 

 

There are no signs of struggle in Jihoon’s bedroom. The bedsheets are unruffled, no wrinkles needing to be smoothed down. None of the books stand out of place. Even his coffee mug looks untouched, and after conducting a scan, there was no trace of poison or drug in the drink that could’ve made Jihoon docile.

Even a note is left, saying something about how Jihoon can’t live like this anymore, how he’s going to stay with a friend for a few days. Seongwoo doesn’t believe it, and wouldn’t have believed it even if Guanlin had shown him a post-it left on the fridge by Jihoon about the groceries, how the slope of the handwriting is at the wrong places, further convincing evidence of the forgery of the note. But, even if the note left behind had been written by Jihoon himself, Seongwoo would’ve thought something was wrong, still; he might not have known Jihoon for years, or even months, but there is one thing about Park Jihoon that anyone can see: how he cares so much, maybe  _too_ much, about his family. How he would hold up the world like Atlas did if it would help his family in any way.

“Have you alerted the police?” Minhyun asks to a pale Guanlin, whose red, bloodshot eyes stand out in contrast to his pasty skin.

“I thought you guys  _are_  the police.” Guanlin looks between them oddly. “Aren’t you?”

Though Seongwoo and Minhyun originally introduced themselves as Guanlin’s father’s friend, at the end of their conversation with Jihoon just yesterday, the partial truth was out of the bag; now Guanlin knows neither of them have anything to do with his father, but knows that Seongwoo is rich, Minhyun is Minhyun, and the both of them are law-abiding citizens who stand up for the law. That’s as close as it’s ever going to get to the truth.

Saving Minhyun from answering, Seongwoo interjects, “Yeah. Totally. Is your dad here, by the way?” The change of subject isn’t smooth by any means, but Guanlin takes the bait, and completely forgets the previous topic of Seongwoo and Minhyun as policemen.

“He’s in his room, he’s not coming to work today.” They all know the reason. “Do you… I mean, would it help you find him, if you talked to him?”

“Yes,” Seongwoo says. “Could you go get him for us, Guanlin?”

Wordlessly, Guanlin nods, and takes brisk steps towards his father’s bedroom. While Guanlin is gone, out to fetch the only adult in the household (and Jihoon’s legal guardian), Seongwoo takes a moment to look at Minhyun; wearing his usual mask of impassiveness, and Seongwoo would reckon Minhyun isn’t worried at all if it isn’t for the tell—the hand he keeps on his damaged leg, as if it’s a clutch to reality.

“God,” Minhyun whispers, and Seongwoo knows the words are directed to him, even as Minhyun presses his gaze to the cracks on the walls. “He even took  _Jihoon_. Jihoon’s just—he’s just a kid.”

“Well, he was a teenager. Kind of a difference there.”

Minhyun stares at him in horror. “This isn’t the time to joke. Someone went missing and you’re  _joking_  about it?”

Unable to say anything further that wouldn’t be  _not_  insensitive, and realizing the truth in Minhyun’s words, Seongwoo’s face burns from shame. “Sorry.”

The door to the father’s room is pushed open, and outside its confines is a middle-aged man, older than both Minhyun and Seongwoo by another fifteen years or so. He must’ve seen better days, what with his untrimmed mane that stick up in all directions, and cracks rampant on his ashen lips. “Who the hell are you?” He asks the strangers in his apartment with just enough suspicion, and moves to pull Guanlin behind him. (Seongwoo can’t blame him; he’s just lost a son, and must be deathly scared of losing another.)

“We’re trying to help you find your missing son, sir,” Minhyun addresses, polite as ever even in the frazzled emotional state he’s in. That they’re  _all_  in.

“I don’t need any coppers investigating for me,” bites out Jihoon’s father, livid. “Load of good you coppers have done for my family, so stay out of my business!”

“Please, we’re just trying to help—”

“I don’t need your help. Give it to someone who does.”

With a tone of finality, he returns to his room, slamming the door behind him with a force that makes the clock that hangs on the wall shake. Guanlin is still there, frozen as if he’s rooted to his spot, and he looks at the men in his living room with something not unlike helplessness.

“I’m sorry dad is—wait.” In the middle of his sentence, Guanlin’s words dry, and leaves behind a mute child. “Before you guys go, there’s something you need to see. Can’t believe I almost forgot about this!”

Guanlin takes off to his room, yelling something about ‘how could I’ve been so  _stupid_?’ and then saying some words in Mandarin that Seongwoo recognizes as curse words. Suddenly, the worries in his head aren’t simply about one kid, but  _two_ , because who’s been teaching Guanlin such colourful (and undeniably crass) language at his age? Jihoon would—

_Hold that thought right now, Ong Seongwoo._

The little boy with the interesting language returns just before Seongwoo can start beating himself up over his own thoughts (and isn’t that a surprise, because does he seem like the type? No, not really), holding a flashdisk shaped like a minion’s head in his pudgy hands.

“Jihoon  _hyung_  gave it to me yesterday—said something like he knew he could trust me with this, but I thought he was joking because he does that a lot and I didn’t think—”

Minhyun rests a hand on Guanlin’s shoulder just before his voice crescendos into a frantic yell, and the effect is immediate. Though not entirely appeased, Guanlin relaxes, just a bit, and takes deep, shaky breaths. “Take it easy, Guanlin.”

“Sorry,” Guanlin apologizes, although he has no reason to. “I haven’t checked what’s in it… I mean, I did.” He blushes at the admittance. “But I didn’t get it—but, I think you guys can crack it. You can, right?” The little boy’s eyes go doe wide, layers and layers of hope shining beneath them.

“We can,” Minhyun says, firmly, and takes the item out of Guanlin’s hands and into his bag, sealing the zipper shut with a satisfied smile. “We’ll do everything we can to find him, Guanlin.”

“I trust you.” Three words, but they’re heavy, and Seongwoo feels the pressure accumulate on his body. “If anyone can bring him home… you can. Please,” his voice breaks into a crack.

His shoulders are shaking, and his eyes redden, like it’s taking every muscle in his too tall body not to cry. “I just want my brother back.”

 

 

 

 

Less than an hour later, they check Jihoon’s message, and it only has one file, but it’s the one file that contains the biggest clue they now have in the palm of their hands.

A location. A tracer, back to the thief’s location, and Minhyun is able to activate it with a certain ease that comes only from experience.

“He’s in Italy.” Seongwoo recognizes the shape of the map immediately, and how could he not? Italy is easy to find and memorize on a map, though for Seongwoo, this is because it’s shaped like a boot. “I’ve heard it’s nice this time of the year.”

“Is it?” The left corner of Minhyun’s mouth quirks. “Then I suppose it’s time for a visit.”

 

 

* * *

 

  **[ ii. ]**

 

“Mom, I’m home.”

The only response he garners is the sound that comes from the television, a re-run of an old soap opera playing in full volume. Hwang Minhyun doesn’t expect anything less.

He takes off his shoes, and puts on his slippers. In the kitchen, he washes his lunch container, as well as the other dishes left in the sink. Empty wine glasses, plates with scraps of this morning’s breakfast. He didn’t have the time to clean those up this morning; he woke up late, and used up most of his time before his ride came to cook breakfast for him and his mother.

(Not that it meant anything, if his mother barely ate any of hers.)

“Did you rest a lot today?” He asks, after he’s finished the last of cleaning and heads to the living room; his mother doesn’t answer, having fallen asleep in the middle of her television intake. This is the third day in a row his mother hasn’t spoken a single word to him, and Minhyun feels something in his clawing in his chest, something that makes it suddenly hard for him to breathe.

 _What else were you expecting, you fool? It’s been like this for months—and it_ will  _continue to be like this,_ the spiteful voice inside his head spits at him, and Minhyun tries to ignore it, tries to tune it out with the memories of the days when his mother wasn’t a shell of herself, when she still had her spark of life; before the divorce, before his father left the house and carried the happiness of the house along with him, before she fell into the routine of waking up, drinking until she fell asleep, and repeat.

Minhyun takes a quilt from her bedroom, red and handmade by his aunt who’d stopped contacting them after the divorce. (Then again, she never seemed to like his mother that much; even the gift was made for his father, who’d decided to leave it behind when he turned his back on them, a little less than six months ago.) He spreads the blanket over his mother’s curled body, turns off the television because their electricity bill is more than what they can cover, and goes to his room; locks the door, and turns on the radio until it’s loud enough to drown out his demons.

In the middle of the night, when Minhyun finds his stomach growl in hunger, he unlocks his room, and goes to get whatever leftovers he’d stored in the fridge. (He hasn’t had his dinner, and doesn’t make it a habit to cook dinner when his mother won’t even touch her plate; breakfast, it seems, is enough sustenance for her.) When he passes by the living room, he sees her gone, though she leaves the quilt behind.

Jazz music plays loudly from his mother’s bedroom. Minhyun recognizes the voice as Ella Fitzgerald’s. He doesn’t bother to try to open the door, to give her back the quilt, to bid her good night; leaving the quilt where it is, and pads back into his room, his hunger forgotten. In its stead, grows a certain weariness too much for someone who is only sixteen.

_Like mother, like son._

(He runs away the next day, backpack stuffed to the brim with his favourite clothes, his radio, and a worn copy of ‘ _War and Peace_ ’. Minhyun doesn’t bother to make an attempt to be quiet; he doesn’t  _try_  to sneak his way outside, doesn’t smother a single noise, whether from his footsteps, or the telltale creak of the doors.

His mother never comes out of her room through it all.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

They are here on a very serious job, with very dire consequences; and so, it makes sense that right after they’ve checked into their hotel room (clean enough to the point Seongwoo finds a little rusted spot in the bathtub, as if it’s been scrubbed too hard), Seongwoo proposes that they orientate themselves with the bustling city of Turin, Italy.

“A child is missing, jewels are missing, and you’re asking me to go sightseeing with you in Turin?”

When Minhyun spells it out, Seongwoo winces, realizing how wrong he’s sounding; after all, the stakes are high, and loitering isn’t doing them any favours—but neither is working too hard, and if there’s something him and Minhyun have been doing non-stop for the past two days, it’s thinking. Using their combined wits to solve the cases, trying to get any hint as to how Jihoon might’ve gone missing in the dead of the night, to find the missing variables to the equation.

“We can’t work ourselves to death,” Seongwoo retorts, meeting Minhyun’s judging gaze steadily. “I know you want to find Jihoon—and I want to find him too, because even  _I’m_  not  _that_  heartless—but you need to think about yourself, too.” He nearly grins when he sees Minhyun’s resolve crumbling, the other man obviously taking Seongwoo’s words into account. “We’ll get back to work after we sightsee, you workaholic.”

“ _You_ , calling me workaholic?” Minhyun scoffs. “Rich, coming from the one who doesn’t sleep sometimes just to solve cases.”

“Hey, how do you even  _know_  that?” Seongwoo hasn’t told the story to Minhyun. He’d know if he had, or maybe it might’ve spilled had Seongwoo been drunk, but considering he hasn’t gone beyond tipsy through alcohol since meeting Minhyun, he can’t have said anything while intoxicated. “I’ve never told you,” he says, accusingly.

“That, you’re right.” Minhyun nods, and his response leaves Seongwoo with more questions than answers. “I drew an assumption—and I was right, though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Seongwoo does what he thinks is an impersonation of Minhyun; a haughty sigh, tilting his head until it’s a 90-degree angle. “Because I’m  _never_  wrong,” he simpers.

The effect is immediate, because Minhyun looks as if he’s torn on getting angry, or being amused. “I don’t speak like that,” he decides to say in the end. The detective barks out his short laughter, eyes dancing with bemusement.

“Of course you don’t,” he agrees, adding a nod to accentuate his response, though the both of them know he doesn’t mean it at all. “Come on, now. We’ve got places to visit, food to eat, people to flirt with—”

“ _Seongwoo._ ”

“Right, sorry! Forgot you were a, uh, celibate nun in disguise.”

“One of these days,” Minhyun starts, and he makes a motion of slitting his own throat with his thumb. “I might kill you in your sleep before we even find our guy.”

Thoroughly threatened, Seongwo ‘eeps.’

(If anyone asks, though, it wasn’t him. It was their hotel room neighbor, a woman in her fifties who was visiting with her Chihuahua—so, they didn’t know if the noise was from  _her_ , or her pet. Definitely not Seongwoo, that’s for sure.)

 

 

 

 

According to one of the travel journals that Seongwoo has read before (reading is a pastime he’s grown to enjoy, no matter how much he used to grumble about it as a child, because when you barely have anyone who would tolerate you, books were as reliable as friendships came), the restaurant he and Minhyun are seated in now is one of the best ones in Turin. Their wait outside hadn’t been long at all despite the crowd, although Seongwoo owes that to his name; apparently, the restaurant wasn’t above getting the big names in before the small ones, and as soon as a table had been emptied, the both of them were ushered inside, completely passing the others who’d lined up even before them. Seongwoo caught dark glares here and there, and Minhyun must’ve seen them as well, although neither of them make conversation out of it.

(The closest thing to a conversation about it goes like this:

“You get that treatment a lot?”

“Depends on where I’m at, or if the people recognize me. In Texas, I was treated like shit.”)

Everything on the menu is expensive, though money has never been a problem for Seongwoo, so he doesn’t look at the price tag for too long and chooses whatever sounds the best (and not foreign) to him; on the chair opposite him, Minhyun is still searching through the menu, much to the annoyance of their waitress, who has begun shifting from foot to foot.

“Minhyun, in case you’re looking, they don’t have kimchi here,” Seongwoo says in his native tongue, knowing how Minhyun, though prone to eating whatever there was (there must be a story behind it, for why else would he have been content with eating a leaf-y thing on the plane? Or eat  _any_  airplane food, really?), he always seemed to prefer it when there was kimchi. Seongwoo attributes it to how he mustn’t have been back in South Korea for some time, and maybe it’d been difficult for him to have his fill of a food he’d eaten from his childhood until the day he moved out in a place like New York.

“Trust me, I know.” Minhyun finally stops ruffling through the pages, and the waiter visibly calms down, although she has begun frowning whenever she thinks neither Seongwoo or Minhyun look at her. (And, she’s right; technically, they aren’t staring her in the face, but the reflection of a book makes for a good spying tool.)

“I’ll have a Neapolitan pizza, please.” The smile he gives to the waitress is sweet, as if he’s trying to charm away her anger, and judging by how all of the annoyance disappears in an instant and is instead replaced with a love struck look, Seongwoo would say Minhyun’s manipulating is, once again, a success.

“Would you like any wine, sirs?”

Seongwoo scans through the options, inwardly beaming at all the choices they had; all of them good, and worth their price. Minhyun doesn’t seem to be as familiar with the winery, much to Seongwoo’s surprise, because he’d always come across as a wine guy; then again, he doesn’t know Minhyun all that well (although the slope of his nose, the curve of his neck, and the width of his shoulders have somehow ingrained themselves into his head, making it easy for him to find Hwang Minhyun even in Seoul’s morning crowd), so maybe it isn’t his place to guess—

 _Ha_. Yeah, right. Minhyun himself guessed about Seongwoo’s characteristics earlier, so Seongwoo’s entitled to his own guessing; it’s just that he’s not as successful as Minhyun when it comes to making  _correct_  statements about the other.

“Give us your oldest,” Seongwoo instructs, and their waitress turns to smile at him. It’s a fake smile, and obviously, she isn’t as taken with him as she is with Minhyun. He doesn’t really understand why, because Seongwoo thinks of himself as a whole fine buffet while Minhyun’s more of a full course meal (but a buffet is multiple full course meals  _and_  you can choose, so?), but some people are into the smaller things. That’s what he reckons.

“Very good, sir.” As she leaves, she smiles shyly at Minhyun, who notices and returns it with a cordial nod.

It’s only once she’s gone that Seongwoo lets the laughter burst from his lips like water from a dam, gripping his hand onto the table as support. “ _Holy_   _fuck_. You’re a real heartbreaker, aren’t you?” He wriggles his brows suggestively, causing Minhyun to groan, dropping his head onto the palm of his hands.

“Please, screw yourself.” The way Minhyun adds a ‘please’, as if to be more respectful, before cursing at him is a little endearing; but Seongwoo thinks of it simply as a fleeting thought, even when his eyes linger a beat too long at Minhyun’s flat, reddish pink ears. He lifts his head after another few seconds, and pointedly looks at the velvety red table dresser. Anywhere but Seongwoo, it seems, whose laughter has diminished into soft chuckles. “What was I even thinking?”

“Maybe it’s a sign that your love life’s been as dry as the middle of a desert,” Seongwoo comments. “I mean, look at your lifestyle: a full-time art curator and part time recluse. I’d be surprised if you’ve been seeing someone for the past few months. No offense,” he adds the last part quickly, just because he notices the way Minhyun’s expression turns pinched. “You’re handsome. Not as handsome as me, but you make do.” Minhyun rolls his eyes. “Just, you know. Your lifestyle.”

Minhyun takes a little too long to respond to Seongwoo. His eyes seem to glaze over for a millisecond before he snaps himself out of it, regaining the cool façade, and serving Seongwoo a little smirk that hadn’t been there just a second ago. “As if you’d know the first thing about my love life.”

“World class detective here?” Seongwoo waves his hands in front of Minhyun’s eyes. “Obviously, I used my world class detective skills to figure out.”

Pale hands push a tanner pair away, and Minhyun’s hands stays on his for a few seconds before he pulls away, though he doesn’t rush. Even after Minhyun’s hands are no longer on his, Seongwoo can still feel the tingles where they’d been, like cool flames waltzing across his skin.

“There’s no appeasing your ego, is there?”

Just as Seongwoo is about to open his mouth to answer (a big, fat no, just as what the both of them expect), the trio of musicians that serve as the restaurant’s entertainment walk to their table, the one on the guitar strumming some chords, not enough to construct an entire song, but just enough to fill the silence.

“Good day, sirs,” The one in the center, presumably the vocalist, says. “Care for a song?”

“Oh no, that won’t be—”

“Absolutely!” Seongwoo cuts off Minhyun’s rejection, and when Minhyun looks at him in blasphemy, Seongwoo’s grin grows wider. It stretches his face, and it hurts, but what he’ll get in return from this should be enough payment for all the pain felt in his cheeks. “Any song?”

The vocalist smiles, all teeth, showcasing his pearly whites. “If we know it.”

“What kind of music do you think he”—Seongwoo jabs a thumb at Minhyun who grows paler upon realizing Seongwoo’s plan—“would like? Whatever you think it is, play it for us.”

Minhyun kicks his shin under the table. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Biting back a wince, because for someone with a limping leg, Minhyun has one hell of a kick. “I’m figuring you out. With the help of these lovely gentlemen.” Seongwoo waves his hands at the trio in grandiose fashion, making sure to memorize every line of Minhyun’s face right then, the way the lines of his mouth loosen with shock. “So, just sit back, and enjoy.”

“…Is this how you woo people?”

“Who says I’d want to woo  _you_?” Seongwoo tries to ignore the heat that creeps on to his cheeks. He hopes Minhyun deems it as a trick of the light. He doesn’t like Minhyun in that way—he barely even knows the man other than the fact he has a limp and he can keep up with Seongwoo, sometimes even assist him in filling the gaps his thoughts can’t fill out—but it’s not as if Minhyun is detestable. As much as Seongwoo is grudging to admit, Minhyun is, like him, a textbook example of ‘handsome’, albeit in a different style from Seongwoo’s almost godlike kind of beauty; it’s a more royal kind of handsome, the kind that makes you think of princes or emperors from the times that have long passed. What he’s trying to say is, amidst all that ‘praising Minhyun’s face’ jargon (but trust him, he’s gone on longer about his own face in the past), it’s not as if it’d be  _revolting_  of him if he tried to garner Minhyun’s affections. Because Minhyun’s not bad, not at all.

But, he’s not trying to woo him, though. Seongwoo’s just trying o be a tolerable travel companion, because they’ve been stuck in each other’s presence (at first unwilling, later growing lukewarm, currently being pleasant against all odds), and he has no doubts that they might be stuck together for a longer time, considering the state things are going.

“Enjoy our performance,” the vocalist says, and cues the other two to start with a snap of his fingers.

The music grows more and more familiar as the trio progress from the instrumental opening, of which Seongwoo had looked on, lost, while the beginning of realization dawned on Minhyun’s scandalized face. Seongwoo doesn’t understand why until he hears the lyrics, and in that moment, Seongwoo tries his best not to choke out his laughter in the middle of a performance.

“ _We’re no strangers to love, you know the rules, and so do I._ ”

There are a few things Seongwoo expected would’ve happened the day he travelled to Italy. Some items on the list include posing in front of the Pisa like your typical tourist (where camerawork would make it look like he was bigger than tower), and eating pizza until his stomach bloated with the added weight.

None of those things include being rick rolled in a five-star restaurant he’d visited on a whim, with Hwang Minhyun, who looks as if he’s trying to count down the seconds until he can wrap his arms around Seongwoo’s neck and most likely kill him before they even find their culprit, as his only company.

 

 

 

 

The food served in the restaurant was great, and certainly a breath of fresh air from the airplane food they’d eaten nearly two days in a row, but it didn’t make up for Minhyun’s sour mood; still grumbling about mischievous musicians and Seongwoo feeding them to keep going. (After ‘ _Never Gonna Give You Up_ ’, Seongwoo tried his luck and paid them for one more song; they played ‘ _Hit Me Baby One More Time_ ’, which Seongwoo tried his hardest not to show his delight at, because it was a good song. He just didn’t want to get eviscerated on the spot by Minhyun.)

“Where are we going?” Seongwoo whines, after the both of them have left the restaurant. The sky is dark now, with only a few stars casting light, and no moon left behind. Most of the light on the streets come from the establishments that scatter around the roads, as well as the few street lamps that stand tall, maybe has stood tall for longer than both Seongwoo and Minhyun’s lifetimes combined.

A step ahead of him, Minhyun continues to walk in a brisk pace, phone’s built-in navigation in hand. “A bookstore. I thought it was my turn to choose a place to visit.”

“I didn’t say it worked like that,” Seongwoo mutters under his breath, as he’d been expecting to carry both him and Minhyun around Turin, acting like their tour guide (who, in reality, had never set foot in this place before. But the Internet was powerful that way.)

They walk through the cobblestoned path, take a few turns, and even get stopped by the traffic lights. Seongwoo keeps track of all this in his head.

(10: Minutes they walked.

4: Turns they took.

3: Traffic lights.

1: Book store.

0: Energy he had left after they arrived, and Seongwoo’s left panting for breath. Having a full-course dinner before walking tends to do that, maybe because what he’s eaten hasn’t quite settled in his system. It’s not because he needs exercise… desperately. The only exercise he needs is the  _moderate_  kind, thank you very much.)

“What book are you looking for, anyway?” He asks Minhyun as the both of them enter the establishment, the situation inside the store—old, it seems, what with the ‘established since 1858’ sign hanging outside—a 180 from the loud streets. The only sound is the rustling of pages, and the smell, instead of asphalt and secondhand exhaust fumes, is of old books and the faintest linger of tobacco.

“Nothing in particular. I just wanted to look around—don’t tell me you’ve never done that before,” Minhyun says, rather wryly.

“’Course I have.” Seongwoo huffs indignantly. “I just… don’t really get the point of doing it. I don’t know.”

“Hm,” is all Minhyun says in response, and goes to ignore Seongwoo as he explores the store, taking in the sight of the plethora of books in the room; books that date back to hundreds of years ago, books written in languages foreign to both of them (or maybe simply foreign to Minhyun, as Seongwoo has a fair grasp on most languages—a job precaution more than anything), books with worn, leather covers.

Rather than standing at the entrance alone, Seongwoo heads towards one of the aisles, containing the classic books. He hasn’t read in a while. Hasn’t had the time, hasn’t had the motivation; even if he has a vast library in his own home (that Minhyun had taken a liking to, considering he’d spent the first night in Seongwoo’s home shut inside the library, barely spending any time inside his guest room. This, Seongwoo knows because he’d been the one to find Minhyun curled up in one of the armchairs near the fireplace when he needed to inform the other about Jihoon’s abduction.)

Not that he hates books or anything, because he doesn’t, but Seongwoo finds himself bored only ten minutes into the bookstore. Maybe it’s because a majority of these books can be found inside his library, and he’s read more than a few of them. Or maybe it’s because his Italian isn’t good enough for 800 pages of literature. Either way, he goes to find Minhyun, and finds him only two shelves away, clutching a copy of a book close to his chest; like a lifeline, and he stands, still as a statue. A far-away look in his eyes, a wistful cross of his mouth.

“Minhyun?” Seongwoo calls, softly, breaking Minhyun out of his trance. As Minhyun jolts in surprise, Seongwoo gets a good look at the title on the cover. Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s ‘ _War and Peace_ ’, one of the older editions. “Are you done yet?” He asks, not entirely impatient.

“Yeah.” A foreign element is present in Minhyun’s voice. Bittersweet nostalgia. “Let’s get back.”

If Minhyun walks faster than he had before, Seongwoo comments nothing on it; lets the other have his secrets, no matter how much Seongwoo yearns to ask Minhyun about the story behind the book that’d shaken him so.

 

 

 

 

Pinpointing the thief’s exact location isn’t difficult when you have Hwang Minhyun, a hacker with above average skills, on your side. Over breakfast, they make an attempt to track down the thief, and Minhyun emerges, victorious, just as Seongwoo finishes eating his baked beans.

“We might need to take a cab there,” Minhyun announces, looking like he’d been forced to take a pinch of salt to his mouth. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Minhyun would prefer walking over taking cabs (or driving their own car), and Seongwoo deduces this must be due to his habits while he was a thief; always afraid of having conversations overheard by a stranger who’d gain more than they would lose by reporting whatever it is he’d hear to the nearest police station.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Seongwoo assures him, and spoons a mouthful of marinated beans into his mouth, eager and opened wide. He munches loudly, much to Minhyun’s disgust. “I’ll be there to protect you.” He throws in a wink, laughing when Minhyun fakes a gag.

“Protect yourself first.” Minhyun’s nose scrunches up.

“Cute,” Seongwoo says, off-hand, and has to stoop to dodge when Minhyun aims a tissue at his face.

 

 

 

  

Villains are typical. Predictable, he’d go so far to say.

Seongwoo expected something more from their elusive thief, as he hadn’t disappointed them so far, but having a hide out in the middle of nowhere, the place disguised as a barnyard? There’s nothing  _new_  about that, and Seongwoo feels like he’s come across at least dozens of these in his few years of experience. He’d wanted to see something more grandiose, something with more flair, something more… drawing; for a jewel thief, at least.

“He’s very…  _un_ flashy,” Seongwoo says, trying not to pout. Ahead of him, Minhyun is at the process of getting the doors to open, but that proves to be a more difficult task than what they’d expected; instead of using an old fashioned key, to enter the barn, facial recognition is needed. “Can you do something about this?”

“Yeah. Just give me a moment.” Soon after, Minhyun begins to ‘work his magic’ (as Seongwoo likes to call it) on the machine, and Seongwoo watches him as he does, never failing to look at Minhyun’s work in a mixture of wonder and admiration. Though Seongwoo isn’t averse to hacking, he’s not as good at Minhyun, who needed to do this on a daily basis back when he was in commission. The skill set is different from Seongwoo who only hacks into government records to dig through old files, and he doesn’t know how he’d have fared on this case if Minhyun hadn’t been there with him—but Minhyun  _is_  here with him, that’s the reality, and that’s precisely why the case has been smooth sailing.

(So, maybe Jaehwan isn’t wrong  _sometimes_.)

The sky is a gradient of pink and orange, the sun disappearing in the horizon; being devoured by nightfall. In the sky, the first of the stars have popped out, and it makes for a pretty picture, if Seongwoo wasn’t in the middle of breaking into someone’s hiding place. Hopefully, the light is adequate for Minhyun’s purposes, because with the rate the horizon is going, they don’t have much time until the sun is completely gone.

“Think I’m done,” Minhyun says, a hint of triumph lingering in his timbre. True to his words, the barnyard’s doors slide open, and Seongwoo has to admit, he’s  _slightly_  impressed. At least the thief didn’t make the place as plain as it had seemed, at first. “After you.”

Inside, the place is deceptively simple; though, having seen what the entrance could do, Seongwoo knows better. Though the inside is small, two-thirds of Seongwoo’s bedroom, bookshelves align themselves across the red brick walls, most of them empty, save for a few books. (Old copies, Seongwoo finds out, as he retracts his hand from one of them and finds enough dust to make him sneeze.)

“Do you think it’s the bookshelf trick?” Minhyun asks, as he inspects the room. Taking note of the couch in the center of it all, and right across it the coffee table with the hardwood legs and newspaper dating back to a month before, untouched, laying innocently across the glass surface. “If you pull one of the books, it’ll lead you to the hideout.”

“Probably is.” Like a magic trick, as Seongwoo says the words and pulls on a random book, the bookshelves shift, sliding and creating a distance between the other to form a gap meant as an entrance. “This is so cliché.”

“After all the trouble we’ve went through travelling around just to find him, this is a nice break,” Minhyun argues, and pushes past Seongwoo to venture inside the hidden passage. The both of them need to duck their heads when entering, being at least a head taller than the height between the roof and the empty gap.

What greets them are computers, each of them interconnected into a monitor that looks as big as an LCD monitor, and a single chair in the middle of it all. Though the only sound present is Minhyun and Seongwoo’s breathing, the room  _glows_ , alive with the silent, thrumming machineries of the engines; Seongwoo tries not to shiver, even when he feels like someone’s eyes are on his back, but that can’t be—he’d looked behind him several times, and the sight of the now shut entrance, an innocent seeming bookshelf, is all he can find.

“This place is giving me the creeps,” he gripes, and rushes forward towards what he guesses to be the mainframe computer. “Let’s hurry so we can get out of here.”

“What, you’re scared of a little dark?” Though Seongwoo is unable to gain a clear view of Minhyun’s face amidst the near pitch black darkness inside the room (he supposes it’ll be brighter once the computer is turned on, though could the thief  _really_  hadn’t had the thought to invest in a few light bulbs?), he would bet on his kidney that Minhyun’s giving him  _that_  look, the one that says, ‘what a loser’ and is almost exclusively reserved for Seongwoo himself.

“Of course not,” Seongwoo denies, and scoffs. “I know I’m as handsome like a vampire, but that doesn’t mean I have to  _like_  the dark.”

“Do vampires like the dark?”

“What are you saying—of course they do, they can’t step out in sunlight!”

“I think that depends on what myth you’re going by. If you were a Twilight vampire, I’d say you’d have no problem with the sun, especially if you’re not shy about glitter.”

Completely against his will, Seongwoo laughs, but makes sure to keep the volume down, just in case. “What the fuck, why are we even having this conversation here? Let’s just get it over with.”

Minhyun says something like, “You’re the one who started it.” Seongwoo ignores him, and for once, keeps his mouth locked shut.

Swiftly, Minhyun presses a few keys, and turns on the monitor, causing the other screens to light up and casting light around the room; the kind of light that’s manmade and makes the back of Seongwoo’s eyes hurt. Minhyun begins to type in a language that Seongwoo only half-understands, and though he knows what some of the commands are for, Minhyun’s pacing is too fast for Seongwoo to keep up, so he resigns himself to waiting, and watching Minhyun work.

“Time to find out who you are,” Minhyun says, and leans forward in his seat in anticipation.

(You’d figure this is where things start to make sense, when the puzzles fit together, when their long journey would wrap up and Minhyun can return to his regular life; away from Seongwoo, away from the dangers of this job, away from the remainders of his past.

Alas, this is when the opposite happens; when the foundations crumble, the Fates pull their hands, and things start to go very,  _very_  wrong.)

“It isn’t loading,” Minhyun says, confused. Instead of the thief’s personal files being found, only a picture of a jewel pops up; it’s a picture of one of the already stolen jewels, too, so it isn’t as if this is new information. “Why isn’t it loading? I could’ve sworn…” He swivels the chair to look at Seongwoo, and Seongwoo gets the feeling that Minhyun is looking  _past_  him rather than at him, most likely deep in thought. (Seongwoo is at loss as Minhyun is; whenever Minhyun does things, it just  _works_ , and this is the first time his attempt has failed.)

“Maybe you could try again?”

“I could change the algo—Seongwoo, look out!”

Minhyun sees it coming before Seongwoo does, and with a strength Seongwoo didn’t know the other possessed, gets up from his seat and  _lurches_  towards Seongwoo, giving him a hard, forceful push to the side. Seongwoo barely registers the pain on his tailbone as he falls to the cold hard ground, stilled in shock. This happens in the matter of seconds, so quick that Seongwoo never catches the wince in Minhyun’s face at the uncomfortable sensation on his limped leg from the strain, never has the chance to move and pull Minhyun down with him—he’s like a statue, and for him, the world has frozen; he barely moves until he realizes what Minhyun has just done, and when he realizes just what the other had done for him, Seongwoo’s breath catches in his throat.

“ _NO!_ ”

Knives shoot from the wall that’d just been behind Seongwoo moments ago, three knives forming a triangle aiming for the upper body, the other two aimed for the legs; Seongwoo’s lips fall into a helpless cry as it happens too fast for him to get up and pull Minhyun out of the fray, and his chest burns with the realization that he cannot stop this. He can’t stop the knives from embedding themselves into Minhyun’s body, can’t stop the blood that oozes out of his wounds, can’t stop Minhyun from falling backwards to the stone floor, his head taking most of the fall.

Seongwoo has never felt so useless before in his life.

His hands shake, and Seongwoo trembles as he crawls towards Minhyun’s fallen body, shaky breaths drawing out of his wide, opened mouth. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening!” Seongwoo’s vision goes red with  _bloodBloodBLOOD_  and the only thing he can see is Minhyun, still as a broken doll, laying in a puddle of his own blood.

Minhyun’s body is light, and Seongwoo is able to gently lift the other into a half-sitting position, placing Minhyun’s head on his chest. The only reason Seongwoo hasn’t lost the slipping remainder of his self control is because Minhyun’s still  _breathing_ , beat up and worse for wear, but he’s still alive; Seongwoo can still save him.

“Get out of h-here, Seongwoo,” Minhyun rasps out, and he coughs, spluttering blood on his chin. Seongwoo tries to focus on Minhyun’s eyes instead, half-lidded, but still opened. “Leave me behind.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Seongwoo half-yells, hysterical. “I can’t just—”

“If my guess is right and I’ve trig”—Another cough, although much weaker than the last—“Triggered the alarms, this place, it’ll collapse soon. You have to get out of here. I’ll be dead weight, just leave—” Minhyun is unable to finish his sentence, and Seongwoo can see his eyes go out of focus; though they’re still open, they’re dull, as if Minhyun’s not even  _there_  anymore.

Trembling, Seongwoo’s thumb reaches for Minhyun’s neck, checking his pulse. His hand nearly flinches away when it’s startlingly cold to the touch, in contrast to the warm, red blood that continues to ooze out of Minhyun’s wounds.

Something in Seongwoo’s throat breaks.

 

 

 

 

The only reason why Seongwoo hasn’t collapsed is through sheer willpower.

With Minhyun leaning heavily against his side—by now, his shirt has been stained with Minhyun’s blood, but he doesn’t even care about that—Seongwoo carries the both of them outside the barn, barely saving both himself and Minhyun just before (true to Minhyun’s words) an explosion sets off, leaving the barn in flames. Seongwoo tries not to think about what would’ve happened had he been inside for just a few seconds longer.

Their trudge towards civilization is slow-paced, but Seongwoo can’t go any faster, with the added weight of Minhyun (he wouldn’t leave Minhyun behind, no matter what the other would say about it) and the own burden of Seongwoo’s exhaustion; both physical and mental. Still, he carries on, even when his lungs are on the verge of giving up, even when his legs are on the verge of collapsing, and leaving both him and Minhyun sprawled somewhere on the road of a foreign country, where barely anyone would notice their absence until it’d be too late to save them.

“Come on, Seongwoo.” He barely has any strength in him left, and Seongwoo’s voice is a flicker of what it used to be; perhaps he’d agonized too loudly earlier, and now, all that comes out of his mouth is a hoarse whisper, even when he means to say it louder.

“Come on, Seongwoo.” The words are a spell, and Seongwoo chants them, over and over. Even when his larynx burns at the saliva that slithers to the bottom of his throat.

“Come on, Seongwoo.” Civilization grows closer with every step. Though every step forward feels like a million, Seongwoo still has some fight in him left. If he’d been useless to Minhyun earlier, he’d rather be dragged through hell and back first before giving up now.

“What the hell—is that a person?” Someone shouts in the distance.

Seongwoo lets himself smile. They’ve been found. “Come on, Seongwoo.” His vision is invaded by black spots, and the next thing he knows, his knees buckle, and the last thing he can force himself to do is to tug at Minhyun so that when they fall, Seongwoo will take the burnt; leave his chest as Minhyun’s cushion, and barely registers the pain the asphalt causes to his head.

_Come on, Seongwoo._

 

 

* * *

 

**[ iii. ]**

 

On the evening Minhyun runs away, Kim Jonghyun waits for him outside, wearing a backpack much lighter than what Minhyun carries with him.

“How did you carry so… light?” Minhyun wonders, fingers tracing the outline of Jonghyun’s orange backpack. Not the most subtle, considering they might have to run away from the authorities just in case anyone bothers to look for them (Minhyun doubts his mother will even notice he’s gone, and Jonghyun doesn’t have any parents, only an orphanage that plans to kick him away as soon as he turns seventeen—so, Jonghyun had figured, why not do them a favor and go away now?), but Minhyun finds comfort in it; somehow, even when he knows wearing an orange backpack is practically raising a red flag for others to come and snatch it away.

“I don’t have a lot with me,” Jonghyun answers, simply, and Minhyun realizes the meaning that could’ve been inferred by his previous words.

“Jonghyun, I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Never thought you did.”

Minhyun struggles to will away the pink tint that creeps onto his cheeks. “Are we all set?”

His company pauses, seemingly reviewing a mental checklist. The way Jonghyun’s head tilts and his mouth falls open, ever so slightly, when he’s deep in thought never fails to paint a picture in Minhyun’s head.

“I think we are. We should leave now, before anyone finds us.”

The both of them know, of course, the last few words are more of a joke than a real possibility.

“Okay. What do you say about heading north?”

“North, no certain direction? I don’t know about this, maybe we could think this through—”

“You trust me, don’t you?”

Jonghyun stops his line of argument at those words. “What are you—I do, of course I do. It’s you and me against the world, Minhyun.”

(Many years later, Minhyun thinks about that night, over and over again; had Jonghyun meant it, when he’d said it was him and Minhyun against the world? At the time, it seemed like it was real, and Minhyun would gladly return the words to Jonghyun, too. But now, when Jonghyun is hundreds of miles away and Minhyun stands against the world alone—he can’t help but wonder.)

 

 

* * *

 

 

Seongwoo wakes up to whitewashed walls and the odor of alcohol (the medical, or rubbing kind, not the consumable kind) and antiseptics. Even without asking, he knows he’s in a hospital, and the first thing he says when he regains full consciousness is, “Minhyun—where is he? Is he okay? Where’s Minhyun—”

As soon as the words come out, Seongwoo winces at the sound of his own voice. Hoarse and throaty, and his throat is parched, like sand is clinging to every corner inside it, and then some on the roof of his mouth. Just how long was he out?

“Take it easy,” the nurse says, presenting a cup of water and placing it just in front of his lips. Seongwoo attempts to take it to his own hands, but they’re shaking and weak, and the cup nearly falls from his grip as soon as he takes hold of it. Thankfully, the nurse catches it before it does, and persistently pushes it back to his lips. “Drink.”

Unable to do much else, Seongwoo pushes his lips open, and takes the rim to the entrance of his mouth. He leans his head back, and the nurse tilts the cup, letting the water fall to his throat; the water is warmer than it is hot, but it still stings his tongue—yet, in the end it brings relief to his throat, and Seongwoo’s experienced worse pain before. He downs the water in one go, and when he pulls back from the cup, some droplets of water have spilled onto his chin.

Without a word, the nurse takes a tissue from his bedside table, and gently dabs away the wet spots on his chin. Seongwoo lets her, though more questions teeter dangerously on the tip his tongue; unfortunately, his self control isn’t known to be particularly strong, so when the nurse throws away the tissue, he lets the questions fall.

“What happened to Minhyun? Is he alright? What day is it?” His voice is still rough, and unpleasant to the ears, but it’s not as scratchy as before. This, Seongwoo takes as a small step towards recovery.

“Slow down with your questions,” the nurse says, amused. Seongwoo reads his nametag.  _Yoon Jisung_. Only after reading the nametag does he realize he has been speaking in Korean all this time, despite the fact he’s sure that he’s still in Italy; the biggest clue to that is the view outside his hospital room window.

“You’re Korean?”

“Yes,” Jisung confirms, and his smile makes Seongwoo want to cry. Not because the man is particularly striking, nor is his smile anything he’d spout poetry for, but finding Jisung is Seongwoo finding a strand of  _home_  in a place where all he wants to do is go home and eat his chef’s seaweed soup and rice for breakfast, no matter how good the food here is, no matter how many world class chefs head the hotel’s restaurant. Seongwoo misses  _home_ , and being able to speak Korean with someone who’s not Minhyun for the first time in what feels like forever, even though he hasn’t been in Italy for any longer than three days. (At least, that’s if his sense of time isn’t fucked up, and more time has passed since he collapsed in the middle of the road—he doubts that’s the case, though.)

“Sorry,” Seongwoo says, hating how thick his voice sounds, hating how his eyes are starting to burn. “I’m not crying, by the way. These aren’t tears, you’ve just got a lot of dust in your hospital room—”

“Of course,” Jisung returns, though judging by the press of Jisung’s lips, Seongwoo doubts he believes him at all. “If you’re wondering about the person who was with you, he’s still here, but last time I checked, he was still unconscious.”

“You’re allowed to tell me this?”

“Of course. Aren’t you married?” Jisung looks at him oddly. “That’s what your records said.”

As per usual, this move practically  _screams_  Jaehwan’s doing _._

_Fuck you, Jaehwan._

In his head, Seongwoo can hear Jaehwan’s squawking laughter from hundreds of miles away.

 

 

 

 

The few things Seongwoo learns from Jisung (the nurse is chatty and boasts about his ability to talk ‘a hundred miles per minute’, according to his fellow nurses and the doctors he has worked with) include:

  1. He was out for a total of three days, which is three days out of commission more than he can afford. Now, Seongwoo doubts he’ll be able to get any ‘proper rest’ as the case is above his own well being, much to Jisung’s loud, insistent nagging and threatening; that he wouldn’t let Seongwoo out except if he got some proper rest at the hospital, in which Seongwoo scoffed at. The cheek was not appreciated, and he was reprimanded with something along the lines of, “These stubborn men are all the same. Why can’t I ever have a docile patient for once? You know, this one time, when I was just starting out as a nurse, I had a patient who would  _listen_  and rested—” (Seongwoo has learnt how to tune him out.)
  2. Last week, he’d married Minhyun, according to his files that was forged, rather obviously (to Seongwoo, Jisung remains oblivious as he never forgets to mention his congratulations every few words), by Jaehwan. Who must be back in Seoul and enjoying the thought of Seongwoo’s minted newlywed status and, if busy with anything, would be occupied with making sure the news of his ‘marriage’ doesn’t reach the media. It’d be suspicious to wipe the record so suddenly, and Seongwoo can only cross his fingers that nothing will happen. The last thing he needs is to have reports swarming him and Minhyun when they return to Seoul, and having their ‘secret gay wedding’ announced to the world—if that happened, that’d mean he and Minhyun would be Dispatch’s couple of the week, never mind the fact that people barely know about Minhyun, and would only recognize Seongwoo. It’d be media hell for the both of them, though the only upside to the news, to Seongwoo, is that they’d most likely be recognized as gay icons. (Technically speaking, though, Seongwoo is bi.)
  3. Speaking of Minhyun, according to Jisung, Minhyun is in a coma and is placed in the extensive care unit. He’d offered to let Seongwoo see him, but the only thing that comes in Seongwoo’s head when he thinks about Minhyun is Minhyun, with knives embedded in his body, with blood spurting on his chin, the red tainting his pallid skin. Seongwoo isn’t ready to see Minhyun, not yet; he’s not sure if he can gather his wits to do that, now, if he can visit Minhyun without seeing  _that_  Minhyun instead.
  4. Oh, and the jewel thief has struck. Again.



“Jisung, I’ve got to get out of here,” Seongwoo pleads, having shoved entire an entire spoonful of chicken soup just moments before, in an attempt to show Jisung that he’s all better now—so much better to the point he can devour his food in nearly one go. “See? I’m healthy now!” Not the best thing to say when you can barely throw your fist up in the air without wondering why your fistbumps are so  _weak_  (the muscles are out of exercise, not that Seongwoo’s ever going to admit it), and, judging by the judging curl of Jisung’s mouth, he doesn’t buy it. Just like any rational person would, admittedly.

“I’ve been a nurse for five years. I know when a patient’s lying,” Jisung deadpans. “Get some rest.” He turns to leave Seongwoo’s room, carrying Seongwoo’s tray of eaten food in his svelte arms.

The door closes softly, and the artificial tranquility is ruined when Seongwoo curses: “Shit.”

He has to get out of here.

An idea sparks in his head when he rummages through his drawers and finds a notepad, and a standardized hospital pen. With a wince, he takes the IVs out of his arms, trying not to pay too much notice into the crudeness of it all. As long as he doesn’t bleed out before he can get out, it’s okay if he gets a little bruised; and judging how he hasn’t stained the white carpet with red, he’s all good.

 _Sorry, gotta go. Contact me if Minhyun wakes up. Thanks, you’re a real one!_  Seongwoo makes sure to jot down his number underneath the words, and tries not to scowl as he gets a good look at his own handwriting. On regular occasions, his handwriting is neat enough, but now it reminds him of the atrocity he’d called handwriting when he was young enough to stuff two full candy canes in his mouth during Christmas and actually had someone to reprimand him; but the muscles in his wrist aren’t used to writing after the few days it had of disuse.

He kicks away the blanket, and lives to regret it when the cold air rushes inside his hospital gown, sending goosebumps down his exposed skin; which is a  _lot_  of skin, considering he’s naked underneath the hospital gown, and that makes it all even worse because if he sets off into a run inside a hospital gown, Seongwoo figures people could see the crack of his bum. And that is  _not_  for public viewing. The thought of that gives him enough terror to make him think twice about this entire plan, because it’s not like he can just stroll out of the hospital wearing a feather light hospital gown that would open with the slightest rustling of the wind, and having nothing underneath. Seongwoo is a great deal of many things, but the thought of voyeurism makes his toes curl, and not in the good way.

“Clothes, I need clothes,” he chants to himself as he pushes himself off the bed, the coldness of the floor biting his plantar, and he sprints towards the wardrobe, eager to get some footwear as soon as possible.

In normal occasions, Seongwoo would throw away the clothes that are stacked inside the wardrobe, but he’d rather look ridiculous than go running around Italy in a hospital gown and get cursed at by his own country’s netizens for being indecent—so, with as much reluctance as a child being dragged off to school, Seongwoo slides the large pink shirt on, groaning when he realizes how long it is, and ends up looking more like a dress. “I’m fucking ruined.” Goodbye, Ong Seongwoo’s chic image; it was nice knowing you.

He can’t decide if the pants are worse or better, and Seongwoo doesn’t find a belt that’d help the loose, silver material from pooling down to his knees, rather than gripping firmly on his hips. (The pants are  _silver._  Of all colours— _why_. The only scenario this’d be worse is if the pants were Naruto orange.) On the floor of the wardrobe, hotel-styled hospital slippers are offered, and they fit snugly on his feet.

Deciding this is as good as it’s ever going to get, Seongwoo takes one last sip of his drink, and goes straight to the window; thankfully, easy to open (actually—shouldn’t that be worrying instead?) and after a battle with the crème curtains, he sticks one foot out, and diverges on the other side with his other foot moments later, hands gripped on the windowpane to help keep himself steady.

 _Don’t look down_ , Seongwoo tries to tell himself, except he has no choice but to look down, if he wants to escape before anyone takes a picture of him and uploads it on the Internet, something about a madman escaping his hospital room. Taking a deep breath, he looks over his shoulder, and lets his eyes sweep over the distance between his room and the ground—from what it looks like, the hospital’s garden, void of even a single soul at the moment—unconsciously gripping the white-painted pane tighter as his stomach lurches at the gap between him and the grass. A fall from this height would put him right back into his hospital room, and he tries not to think about how that’s probably the best case scenario, in this situation.

If he wants to get down, his only choice is to jump. A leap of faith, a test of his courage, and if he’s lucky, he’ll make it down safely.

“You can do this,” Seongwoo whispers to himself, and turns around to face the front of his body towards the open sky, rather than the window of his hospital room. (He forces away the thoughts of his weak, shaking fingers. He’s stronger than this. He knows he is.)

He glues his fingers from the things he’d been holding onto. Steadies his breath. Clears his head from doubts, instead filling it with self encouragement, and all the courage he has left. Plays a  _Queen_  song in his head, to fill him with reckless determination, to desecrate any vestige of uncertainty that continues to linger like a permanent resident of his essence.

Deep breaths.  _In, out, in, out_.

(A chronicle of his final thoughts: Guanlin who has a missing brother and needs him to find Jihoon and bring him back; Jaehwan who has  _always_  believed in him, even when Seongwoo doesn’t know if his heart is in the right place, the same Jaehwan who had given him a chance at redemption for all the sins he has committed in his lifestyle; Minhyun, who is in a coma because of Seongwoo’s own incompetence, the same Minhyun who has grown to consider as something closer than a forced colleague; and the faces of all the people he has saved, the people whose lives he has helped—and the thought of how he could help many more if he makes the jump, if he believes in himself that he can make it, and he  _will_.)

Seongwoo kicks his feet off from the surface.

He  _leaps_.  

 

 

 

 

"I'm glad to have you back in commission," Jaehwan says, looking more casual and at the same time, wearier than Seongwoo has ever seen him in weeks; though he wears a striped t-shirt and the shorts Seongwoo knows to be his favourite, he has bags underneath his eyes, unconcealed and a stark contrast against his pallid face. It's not the computer, or the camera, either; because the signal is perfectly fine (full Wi-fi bars, and he'd actually  _paid_  for the service), and the both of them have cameras that are more expensive than they should be, but with features that make it worth it—including the quality of the pictures, or in this case, motion.

Questions linger on the tip of his tongue, ranging from  _Why do you look so tired?_  to  _How did you know the thief was male before I did?_  but in a show of self control, Seongwoo bites his tongue (quite literally, he's afraid to say, what with the metallic taste that now roams in the roofs of his mouth) and saves the questions for a better time.

"Yeah. Thanks for the marriage thing, by the way," he speaks, and finds the slightest hint of relief when Jaehwan laughs. At least Jaehwan's laugh is the same, high-pitched and nearly crescendoing into a scream, and Seongwoo has one less thing to fret over. "You didn't even give me a wedding gift. Here I thought you were my best friend."

"I'll sing for you as a late wedding present," Jaehwan assures him, causing Seongwoo flashbacks to the time he and Jaehwan had gone to karaoke, soused after drinking more than they could handle, and the only thing Seongwoo clearly remembers from that night is Jaehwan wearing a wig on his head and singing his lungs out to  _Defying Gravity_. "How is he, by the way?"

The tell-tale sign of Jaehwan's guilt is present; the crease on his forehead, and the way his voice dips into a lower register, even if only for the last few words of his sentence.

"In a coma," Seongwoo exhales, and doesn't miss the frown marring Jaehwan's lips. "I left my number behind, just in case he wakes up, so someone can contact me."

"Don't remind me about your stunt," Jaehwan says, flatly. "Do you have any idea how much paperwork I had to deal with?"

"It's not like you do that on your own, anyway," Seongwoo says, indistinctly, with a conspicuous pout.

"...Do you have any idea how much paperwork  _Sungwoon_  had to deal with?"

Sungwoon is Jaehwan's secretary, and one of the most reliable people Seongwoo has ever known. (He even brings a toaster to the office, for reasons Seongwoo can't fathom, but Sungwoon makes a mean toast bread, so it's not like Seongwoo is at any place to complain.) Graduated from Seoul University, and everyone expected him to be a surgeon, so he ended up working for his high school friend; the most medical thing he's done since his graduation being fixing up Jaehwan's agents' wounds. Nice guy, though. Seongwoo likes him enough to feel a shred of guilt over the stress Sungwoon must've endured due to Seongwoo's own antics, but it was a necessary evil.

"Tell him I'm sorry," Seongwoo offers. "About Minhyun, though—Jaehwan, I messed up. He wouldn't be in a coma if I was more capable," he confesses, and through the urge to bow his head, Seongwoo forces himself to stay upright, to meet Jaehwan's eyes; he expects Jaehwan to show him disdain, or at the least, confusion.

Instead, Jaehwan's expression opens, and instead of something scathing, all Seongwoo sees is understanding.

"It wasn't your fault," Jaehwan says, readjusting himself in his seat before leaning forward, curling his fingers together and resting them on his lap. "You did your best, Seongwoo."

"No, I didn't. You don't understand, if I was faster—"

"What would've changed? You would've gotten out faster?" This is the first time Jaehwan has raised his voice in the entirety of their conversation, and it's enough to drive Seongwoo into silence. "Seongwoo, you froze up. That's not just something you can beat out of yourself. I think, sometimes, you forget that you're human too."

_Sometimes, you forget that you're human too._

The words imprint themselves on Seongwoo's head, leaving behind a noticeable mark. Jaehwan is seldom ever  _somber_  with Seongwoo; this side of Jaehwan is one that he has only seen very few times, and only during the most dire of situations. But, the things Jaehwan said, must have some truth in them; even if Seongwoo attempts to bisect them, to see if he can twist them around, if he can find some kind of negative hidden meaning behind them.

All Seongwoo wants to do is to save the people around him. But how can he do that when he's as human as they are? He's not invincible, not by a long shot—Seongwoo bleeds, too, red and dark and not a speck of gold, unlike ichor. That should be enough proof of him being human, but not rarely, Seongwoo considers himself  _above_ ; not because he deems himself morally superior, because Seongwoo has done so many wrongs in his life that the good very barely weighs it out, but because he's so used to helping and saving the world that he forgets, sometimes, he needs to be saved, too.

"I could've... I could've  _moved_."

Jaehwan looks at him with pity, and Seongwoo's nails dig into his skin. "You care about him a whole lot, don't you think?"

"I—what are you saying? Of course I do," he conveys, lips drawn in flummox. "It's hard  _not_  to. I hate to say it and inflate your ego, but; Minhyun... he's not bad."

There's a funny expression on Jaehwan's face. Not funny, meaning Jaehwan's 'I really want to laugh' face, but funny as in, he knows something Seongwoo doesn't; by all means, this is odd, because in more cases than not, it's the other way around. "What do you mean, 'not bad'?"

"For someone I've been stuck with for a while, he isn't bad company," Seongwoo admits. "He can keep up with me. He's not intimidated by me. It helps he doesn't... push me away, too. If I were him, I'd hate me, you know? Not because of my personality, that's not the problem here, but it's because I threatened him. I'd probably plot to kill me in my sleep."

"Who's to say he didn't?" At Seongwoo's disbelief, Jaehwan is quick to add, "I was just saying!"

"You know what? I'm not surprised. Why am I even shocked at this point? You're so... you."

"At loss for words now, Ong?"

Seongwoo rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah." He isn't entirely in the mood to fight Jaehwan, which is a first, but maybe it's because he's been too busy worrying over Minhyun to have a bone to pick with his best friend. "I'm going to investigate the latest heist tomorrow," he finally says, completely changing the topic; Jaehwan straightens in his seat, and thoroughly adjusts his look to something more like the Jaehwan that Seongwoo sees during mission briefings.

"Take Sungwoon with you," he instructs. "I know you're used to working with Minhyun by now—"

"I still work solo the best, what are you even saying?"

"—but," Jaehwan says, completely ignoring Seongwoo's nimble protests, "I think a little help won't be bad. You like Sungwoon, don't you?"

The man has a point. Besides, Seongwoo could use for one of Sungwoon’s baked toasts right about now; maybe he’ll leave a text to the older man later, to bring his toaster with him when he leaves for Italy. Knowing Sungwoon, however, he most likely already has the toaster packed, along with a few other things that he’d deem as a necessity, such as (but not limited to): an exfoliator (which makes perfect sense once you’ve seen the man’s face, he has a skin as soft as a baby’s butt, Seongwoo swears this on his kidney), other facial masks that Seongwoo needs more than Sungwoon but is too lazy to use, dietary sugar, and just enough food and materials for him to cook something out of it—like baked toast.

"Yeah." Seongwoo deflates at the look of victory Jaehwan wears like a cape. "I'm the superior friend though, right?" He makes sure, because he's petty, and likes to hear it when Jaehwan is forced to admit that, no matter how much he acts like he hates Seongwoo's guts, Seongwoo is as much of his best friend as Jaehwan is Seongwoo's.

"Where'd that come from?" And then, he snorts; "save some of the sap for Minhyun when he wakes up."

Then, it all clicks. The funny look on Jaehwan's face. The bait Jaehwan set up and Seongwoo took, like the idiot (in everything besides crime) he is. "When I told you I cared about Minhyun, I didn't mean it in that way, what the fuck."

Before Jaehwan disconnects from their call, he sings out in a well trained vibrato, "Suit yourself!"

 

 

 

 

Truth be told, Seongwoo’s experience of working with Sungwoon is limited to them attempting to create something in the kitchen, meaning Seongwoo’s attempt to cook and Sungwoon being his supervisor slash babysitter slash a mentor who’s like the nice version of Gordon Ramsey, and that  _one_  case when Sungwoon just started working for Jaehwan, and Seongwoo was assigned to keep an eye on him until they got stuck into a murder case and had to solve their way out (an interesting story for another time)—a majority of their interactions are of them just socializing without the burden of a mystery, or whenever Seongwoo needs someone to annoy and Jaehwan’s not there, but conveniently, Sungwoon is—and Sungwoon is too nice; even when he gets his feathers ruffled, he’ll try to pass it off as a joke, and so, whenever Seongwoo stops bothering Sungwoon, he finds himself left with a sense of guilt.

They’re not  _bad_  together though, and while Sungwoon isn’t Minhyun, who acts like Seongwoo’s guy in the chair, Sungwoon is effective and reliable; they finish up their initial investigation in the bank in a matter of minutes (thirty minutes, to be exact), leaving them with enough time to conduct a questioning with the manager of the bank. Sungwoon keeps track of everything with his recorder, and Seongwoo is the one with the ‘asking duty’; he makes sure to school his face into something intimidating. Because that’s how you get the bad guys to fess up, though he doubts the manager is capable of stealing all those diamonds—the man is round and balding, and looks like he’s about to faint whenever Seongwoo so much as  _glances_  at the man’s black shoes.

“We’re just here to ask you a few questions,” Seongwoo begins, and in return, receives hurried nods from the manager. “Your name is…?”

“Giovanni Romano.”

“Right, Mr. Romano. Do you have any clues as to who might have done this?”

For a moment, Giovanni Romano forgets his irrational fear of Ong Seongwoo, and goes into deep thought; he emerges moments later, and so does his fear, because he looks at Seongwoo’s velvet red tie as he speaks. “I do. And I don’t have a clue—I  _know_  it is him!”

Sungwoon gives Seongwoo a look of perplexity.  _Just go with it,_ Seongwoo mouths at Sungwoon, making sure to tilt his head in an angle where Giovanni will find it difficult to read what he’s said. Not that he could make much sense of it, unless Giovanni has learnt Korean.

“Who is it, then?”

“But, first.” The balding man shifts his eyes onto the floor, and when he lifts his gaze once more, he says, in a conspiratorial whisper; “I implore you not to look at the bank unfavorably after this—I’ll admit it was foolish of me, to have trusted him like that”—A look of disdain crosses his feeble profile—“but I assure you, it was a mistake.”

Seongwoo doesn’t understand a single thing, but he follows his own advice, and goes with it. “Of course, Mr. Romano.”

“A year ago, there was a man, who created an account here—a man named Kwon Hyunbin.” Seongwoo tries not to cringe at the mispronunciation, and gestures for the man to continue with his story. “He was a trusted customer, he traded diamonds with us quite regularly; me, Sir, me and the bank—never thought anything was wrong. He even gave us  _gifts_  whenever he returned from overseas! How could we have figured something was wrong? We gave him a VIP pass, and it allowed him to come and go as he pleased, even after hours—we were fools.”

 _Yeah, you guys really were,_  is what Seongwoo wants to say, because who would trust someone that easily over the basis the man would give them gifts? But, he spares the man, and nods noticeably, signaling the man to speak the rest of his story.

“The day after the robbery, he was gone! Vanished like the wind. That’s when I knew it was him—I’ve known it since that day!”

“Of course you have,” Seongwoo says, and after Sungwoon gives him a thumbs up, meaning he now had the conversation on record, Seongwoo gives the balding man one last look. The man visibly pales. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

On the limousine, on their way back to the hotel (because Jaehwan is only generous, going so far as to provide Seongwoo with a limo as a method of transportation around Italy, five or six days too late), Sungwoon cross checks the result of the interview with what he and Seongwoo and theorized prior to asking Giovanni Romano. For the most part, their initial theories were spot on; it’d been a trusted customer, it’d happened because of the carelessness on the bank’s part. But now, they had a name to go with their suspicions, and Seongwoo can whiff the smell of a resolved cast in a distance not too far off.

“I’ll have to ask the people back at headquarters to search for a Kwon Hyunbin.” Sungwoon categorizes their findings together, and Seongwoo doesn’t help, only pours himself another drink from the vending machine inside the limo.

“You go do that.” Seongwoo tips his head back and downs the soda as if it’s a shot. “I’m staying here.”

“Hwang Minhyun?” Sungwoon guesses, and Seongwoo smiles, grimly.

“Yeah. We’ll follow your lead later,” Seongwoo plans on the spot, and goes to refill his cup.

“Okay.” Sungwoon pauses; “I don’t mean to sound rude or anything, but… what will you do if it takes more time for him to wake up?” In the subject of comas, Seongwoo knows the like hood of Minhyun making it out within a number of only a few days is startlingly low; he’d suffered major blows, practically nearly  _died_ , and Seongwoo knows of coma cases where it has been years and yet, the patient hasn’t woken up. And some of those cases happen from reasons that are lesser than being stabbed all over your body with throwing knives. He can’t stay in Italy forever, but the thought of leaving Minhyun behind is too much.

If Minhyun wakes up from his coma, all alone, then Seongwoo would’ve failed him again. He can’t do that—once is already once too much.

“I don’t know,” Seongwoo admits, honest as he is unsure. “I’ll get to that when that happens. I’ve always been good at thinking on the spot. Or just thinking in general.” He waves his hands at the end, though Sungwoon only throws him a sad smile, as if he knows that Seongwoo’s trying his hardest to act like nothing’s wrong. “Make me baked toast before you leave.” He changes the topic, and he’s grateful when Sungwoon says nothing of it.

“I’m not your maid,” Sungwoon complains. In the end, though, back in their shared bedroom (and Seongwoo tries not to think of how Sungwoon sleeps on the bed that Minhyun used— _will_  use when he wakes up too, because he can’t  _not_  wake up) he still makes four baked toasts; two for Seongwoo, and two for himself.

They eat in comfortable silence. Neither of them daring to disturb it, much less they drive the other away from their thoughts.

 

 

 

 

It’s a regular day, until it isn’t.

Seongwoo has taken it upon himself to explore Turin during the time Minhyun remains in his coma, and Sungwoon is still researching their findings with the team back in Seoul. He stays away from the places he and Minhyun visited together, in fear he might find himself lost, not in the physical attributes of the streets, but inside his own head; he fears he might find himself trapped in a memory, so he walks the roads he has not walked, and when he catches the first sight of a place he’d been to with Minhyun, he firmly turns the other way.

The day starts out as one of those days, until it isn’t.

At lunch, Seongwoo receives a phone call from an unknown number. He puts down his fork and knife—previously cutting down his steak into small, juicy slices—instead lifting his phone with his now free hand. Though wary, he picks it up, and presses the phone close to his ear. “Hello?”

“This is Yoon Jisung. You know, the nurse you ditched after I explicitly told you  _not_  to leave the hospital yet.” The voice is familiar, and Seongwoo remembers the nurse who can talk a hundred miles per hour, the nurse who’d taken care of him during the shortest, conscious hospital visit of his life. Jisung’s own reminder of Seongwoo’s doing helps. “You asked to be notified about any updates on your husband, right?”

“Yes.” Seongwoo feels his heartbeat in his ears, dull until it crescendos into the sound of distant drums.

“He’s awake.”

And then: “Are you still there? Oi, Ong Seongwoo. Yoohoo? Did I break you?”

“I’m here,” Seongwoo somehow manages to say, despite his heart that’s beating too fast in his ribcage, and a mind that courses with the thought,  _he’s awake, he’s awake, he’s awake_. “I’ll be there soon. Tell him to—tell him to not go anywhere.”

“You should take your own advice,” Jisung snuffles; “Do you know how much trouble you got me into after you left? I think I’ve never seen the boss look so angry.”

“I can imagine.” He shakes his head, even if Jisung can’t see it. “Sorry. I’ll give you some cash later as compensation—”

“Do you think I can be bought?” Jisung shrills, and Seongwoo hears a clatter on the other line. He’d bet that Jisung just bumped into a wall, or something along those lines, and is likely getting some dirty looks from the people around him, if the few moments of silence and mumbled apologies is anything to go by. “This isn’t about the money. I know I won’t make even a quarter of your life savings in my lifetime, but I’m not doing this because I want your money. I’m doing this because I want to  _help_ , you fool.”

Seongwoo’s mouth dries up, like a well in the summer. When he lets his tongue lie flat on the roof of his mouth, it makes a soft clicking sound.

“You might be a stubborn, difficult patient,” Jisung continues, heedless to Seongwoo’s stunned condition, “but I know about what you do. If anyone deserves help, it’s you—or are you so used to being a martyr and helping others that you forget you need help, too? These stubborn billionaires, I swear.”

When Seongwoo doesn’t come up with a response, Jisung speaks again, though this time, he speaks with a trace of worry. “Seongwoo, are you still there?”

“Sorry, I just needed to find the car keys.” A lie, because Seongwoo doesn’t even have a car rented, and the limo that Jaehwan gave him disappeared around the same time as Sungwoon. But, he needed that silence, needed it to control the prick in his lungs, needed it to control his throat from closing up when he needed to talk. “Jisung.”

“What is it  _this_  time?”

“Thank you.”

 

 

 

 

They’ve moved Minhyun into a hospital room not unlike Seongwoo’s instead of keeping him in the intensive care unit, and when Seongwoo barges into the room, he finds Minhyun already awake, a novel in his hands. Most of his wounds seem to have subsided, and all Minhyun looks now is worse for wear, wan with rims on the bags of his eyes.

The moment Seongwoo shuts the door closed, Minhyun looks up from his book, placing it onto his lap. “Seongwoo,” he greets, and he doesn’t sound as if he’d been unconscious for the past few days—nearly a week now. “Come sit.”

Seongwoo takes a chair from the small coffee table, and slides it across the floor towards the empty spot next to Minhyun’s bed. He sits, crosses and uncrosses his legs together, and finds himself confused where to start; he’d been waiting for the day for Minhyun to wake up, but he’d been so focused on wondering  _when_  it was for him to think about what he’d say when the day arrived.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Seongwoo says, at last, right hand gesturing at Minhyun’s weak, but still breathing, figure. Minhyun tugs his blanket closer to him, and Seongwoo helps, lifting the edge of the soft, greyish blue material with the slits of his fingers.

“Thanks, but I feel like shit,” Minhyun answers, frankly; “I guess that’s what a coma would do to you.”

“I guess,” Seongwoo echoes. “Should I be concerned you’re already making jokes about your own suffering?”

The other stifles a laugh, but in a few seconds, he coughs instead; Seongwoo shakes his head when he sees blood on Minhyun’s chin, and pinches his thigh to snap himself back into reality from the firm grip of his fears.

“The best thing I can do right now is move on from that,” he admits, and frankly, Seongwoo agrees. “You could’ve left me behind back there—but you didn’t.” Minhyun looks at him with something that Seongwoo can’t place; is it suspicion? Is it thankfulness? Or maybe, is it loathing, for Seongwoo having disobeyed Minhyun’s orders?

“Did you really think I’d leave you behind?” The sad smile Minhyun wears says it all. “What the fuck. What kind of person do you think I am? I’m kind of offended.”

Minhyun doesn’t hesitate when he says, “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

Seongwoo knows. He doesn’t need Minhyun to spell it out for him. Though he might be oblivious, he isn’t daft enough to miss Minhyun’s martyrdom and confuse it for a mistake of judgment on his character.

“Just… It was dumb, okay?” He lets himself be honest, even when Minhyun rests his eyes on him with befuddlement. “We haven’t gone to the level of giving each other friendship bracelets or anything, hell, you don’t even know what my favourite colour is (it’s black, by the way), but you’re still my friend. That’s as emotional of a confession as you’re ever going to get from me—and you know, what?” A pause; “I wish I could get mad at you for asking me to leave you behind. I wish I could be furious at you for asking me to leave you there to die, I really do, because at least then I wouldn’t still feel the guilt on my conscience, even after saving you. I was  _useless_ , Minhyun, and you might not even be in a coma if I’d done something, or didn’t stand in front of the trap like an amateur, and if I was angry at you, I wouldn’t feel jack shit about your situation at all.” Seongwoo’s smile grows wistful, and he looks at Minhyun for answers that he knows he’ll never get. “I wish I could hate you— _God_ , I want to—but that’s not enough.”

When he looks at Minhyun, he’s hoping he can find something,  _anything_ , that’ll leave Seongwoo with more answers than questions; instead, he finds Minhyun sitting there, face pinched together like the very act of breathing hurt him. “That was fucking weird, wasn’t it? Forget what I—”

But, Minhyun cuts his words short, and his voice is distorted, like he’s having a struggle with himself that he’s trying not to show. “Why is that?”

“Hell if I knew.”

“Seongwoo.” In the stretch that lies between the bed and Seongwoo’s chair, Minhyun extends his arm, and finds Seongwoo’s palm, kissing it with his. Seongwoo opens his palms, previously fisted in itself, and lets Minhyun interlock their hands together, the iciness of Minhyun’s flesh melting against the warmth of Seongwoo’s. During that moment, Seongwoo waits for Minhyun to push him away, to say something like, ‘ha! This is some gay shit, isn’t it?’, but Minhyun doesn’t; he simply stares at their hands, intertwined, with a funny look, as if it is the most peculiar he has ever seen.

 

 

 

 

Inertia is what keeps Seongwoo from leaving Minhyun’s bedside, even when he has a whole hotel room with the amenities that a hospital can only dream of waiting for him a taxi ride away, and it’s the same inertia that leaves him waiting for Minhyun’s full recovery in the sofa placed in Minhyun’s hospital room, where he spends most of his days and nights in Italy.

“There are still a lot of sights to see,” Minhyun says, although he doesn’t look up from his book. Seongwoo doesn’t know how the book even got here, but knows better than to ask.

“What’s the point of travelling by myself?” He makes a face. “Besides, I know you’ll be better in no time if you’re blessed with my presence, so really, I’m doing you a favor.”

Minhyun turns the page, and sighs wearily, as if he’d been expecting Seongwoo to say that—and knowing Minhyun, he probably saw it coming from miles away. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Could you turn down the TV?”

Though Seongwoo has been keeping himself busy by watching the latest episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, at Minhyun’s request, he takes the remote from the table and lowers the volume by double digits. “Thanks,” Minhyun mumbles, and resumes to read his book, leaving Seongwoo alone with the low rumble of chatter from the TV.

His phone rings a few minutes later, playing the telltale ringtone of Britney Spears. He takes it outside, having taken into account the annoyed crease of Minhyun’s brows at the first note of Seongwoo’s ringtone. A few nurses pass by, pushing carts filled with hospital food, IV bags, and other medicine he can’t name.

“Hello?”

“Seongwoo.” That’s Sungwoon’s voice on the other line, and Seongwoo pulls his free hand from his pocket. “I managed to track down that Kwon Hyunbin guy, and I had a few others to go to Japan to ask him a few questions.” Usually, that duty would go to Seongwoo, but Jaehwan hasn’t bothered him ever since he’d called in the middle of the night and found out Seongwoo was staying with Minhyun by the way Seongwoo’s voice had, apparently, hushed; in his defense, Minhyun was sleeping and he’d rather not disturb the other from whatever fitful rest he was able to get. “He hasn’t been out of Japan in the past month—we double checked with whatever possible records, checked out his alibis too, and everything matches up.”

“But didn’t the identity say it was him?”

“The passport said it was him, yeah.” A rustling noise is heard in the other line, and Seongwoo imagines Sungwoon is tidying some files as he speaks, the phone probably trapped in the crook of his neck with his chin. “But he lost his passport last year—shortly before our thief started operating in Italy.”

“Well, that’s a bummer. When did the bank robbery happen again, by the way?"

“July 7th, why do you ask?”

But the next full moon is supposed to be on July 31st—to have the thief suddenly strike on July 7th is out of the usual pattern, and leaves Seongwoo with a cloud of doubt. “But that’s the… warning gibbous, I think. Why’d he strike then?”

“I’ve been wondering that too, actually,” Sungwoon admits, sheepishly. “Jaehwan sounded really sure when he told me it was the work of the thief, though. So I just went with it.”

 _Jaehwan_. This isn’t the first time Jaehwan’s known something that even Seongwoo doesn’t, and although Seongwoo would jump in front of a bullet for him, something is terribly wrong about all this. How does Jaehwan fit in the puzzle? There’s no way Jaehwan doesn’t know something, because while once could be a coincidence, twice is too many times too much; the next time Seongwoo sees Jaehwan, it will be with questions that he’ll ask with no remorse.

It’s not as if he considers Jaehwan to be working with the enemy. Jaehwan is a great deal of many things. He is a friend, a boss, a good singer who can’t hold a proper tune when drunk, and someone Seongwoo would, on normal circumstances, trust with his life. But there’s no way Jaehwan has no part in this, even if Seongwoo knows Jaehwan isn’t shallow enough to steal some jewels; just because Jaehwan wouldn’t be the thief, however, doesn’t mean he’s free from Seongwoo’s inner doubts and accusations. Though having to accuse his own best friend of something makes Seongwoo’s breakfast climbs its way back from his stomach, separating personal feelings from the job is one of the lessons Seongwoo’s learned the hard way.

“I’ll have to call you back,” Seongwoo says, finally, when he realizes he’s spent too much time staying silent on his part. “Thanks, Sungwoon.”

“Any time. Good luck, Seongwoo.”

Sungwoon hangs up, and Seongwoo returns to Minhyun’s room, where the other has just finished his plate of pasta for dinner. There’s a little bit of sauce smudged on his cheek, and before Seongwoo even knows it, his legs have moved against his own will, and he’s suddenly offering Minhyun a tissue, though it would’ve been faster to let Minhyun know and let him take his own tissue from his bedside table.

“Oh.” Awkwardly, Minhyun takes Seongwoo’s offering, and pats it onto the dirtied corners of his mouth. “All good?”

“Nice and clean,” Seongwoo assures, hating how his voice comes out as a nervous squeak.

Minhyun purses his lips, and stares at Seongwoo oddly. “You sound… different.”

“Your mom thinks I sound different.”

“Seongwoo, those jokes were never funny; and even if they were, they stopped being funny back in 2012.”

“…You know what, you’re really making me regret keeping you company with my presence—just go to sleep, Minhyun, so we can get out of here quick.”

“Okay. Good night, Seongwoo.”

Having walked across the room, Seongwoo flicks the light switch, leaving only the dull yellow glow of the night light shining amidst the darkness of the room. “Good night, Minhyun.”

 

 

 

 

On the day of Minhyun’s discharge, the sky is a pallid gray, little white washed clouds streaming in and out of sight, leaving the world in peaked blue hue. The nurses coddle over him, one last time, murmuring things about how they wish him the best, how they’d just wish he and his husband would stop trying to be so  _adventurous_  during their honeymoon, just in case something like this tragedy would occur once more; Minhyun listens to the ordeal, clueless to the words, and Seongwoo, the one who understands every last bit of Italian they speak, wishes he could melt against the wall he leans on—for it’d be better than standing there, looking as red as the nose of a Christmas reindeer.

“Don’t be a stranger!” Jisung sees them off, either ignoring or remaining unawares of the dirty glares sent by the doctor he’s supposed to be working with; when Seongwoo breached the topic of Jisung’s own duties as a nurse above him seeing away Seongwoo like the good friend he is, Jisung said something about there being at least a dozen nurses that could substitute for him, and seeing away the most difficult and the most interesting patient he’s ever nursed would be more interesting than doing his usual routine of helping a doctor shoot some drugs into a patient’s bloodstream to help them with their pain.

“I won’t! Visit Seoul sometimes—maybe for  _Chuseok_! If you don’t have plans, you could stay at my place,” Seongwoo offers, after he’s finished stuffing the last of his bags into the car. Two days after his initial stay at the hospital, he’d decided to check out from the hotel, and moved his belongings to Minhyun’s hospital room instead; he wouldn’t have gone back anyway, and though the bill wouldn’t make so much as a dent on his savings, he sleeps better knowing he’s made a decision that financially makes sense. Sungwoon would be proud of him for having broken through his bourgeois lifestyle, even if it’s just this once.

Jisung pretends to think about it for a moment, though the shit eating grin completely ruins the effect of it. “Fine!” As if Seongwoo didn’t know that already; “Minhyun, your husband just offered me to stay at his place—”

“Not in that way!” Seongwoo covers his ears, and hurriedly gets inside the car, flipping Jisung off before rolling up the car windows. He can hear Jisung’s laughter being carried by the wind, and lets it distract him from the disturbing realization that he doesn’t even freeze at comments about him and Minhyun’s ‘marriage’ anymore.

“Where are we going?” Speak of the devil and he shall appear; Minhyun, seated on the passenger seat next to Seongwoo’s, asks. Their driver awaits their instructions, though judging by the lost look on his face, Seongwoo figures he doesn’t understand a word of what Minhyun said.

“The airport, please,” Seongwoo says in Italian, and their driver nods, before setting course towards their desired destination. “Airport,” Seongwoo then translates to Minhyun, who nods and leans back in his seat.

Figuring Minhyun wouldn’t be in the mood to talk, judging by the way his head lolls back and his eyes are beginning to drift to a close, Seongwoo takes out his phone, plugs in his earbuds, and puts his playlist on shuffle. The last time he’d listened to music properly—not his ringtone, and not through the speakers that blare through the streets or even the performances from the trio at the restaurant—was weeks ago, and he misses his favourite songs, for they always make him feel like he’s more than what he is; music can wash over his soul, make him forget of his condition, even if it’s only for a fleeting moment.

A song begins to play, and Seongwoo lets himself drown into the beat, sinking deeper, and still, sinking.

 

 

 

 

There are times when Seongwoo wishes he had a camera. When he’s faced with a view so breathtaking there’s no way he is able to ingrate it only in his memory, when he meets a celebrity in the middle of the streets and, as a public figure himself, feels like asking for an autograph on his forehead is two steps too extra than what he’s allowed, and lastly, when he catches glimpse of Minhyun after realizing their next stop isn’t Seoul, or even Japan—it’s New York, where Minhyun’s home is, where Seongwoo only knows he’s going because the best way  to solve a case when they’re faced with a dead end, is to take some time off with a breath of fresh air.

(It’s true the sands of their hourglass continue to fall, but Minhyun has literally  _just_  recovered from a coma caused by throwing knives, and Seongwoo reckons eating pizza with pineapples would hurt less than forcing him to go back into the action immediately, despite Minhyun’s protests of, ‘My condition isn’t even  _that_  bad!’)

“Treat me some food later. I want something that’s… New York-ish. What are New York’s signature dishes, anyway?” Seongwoo follows behind Minhyun like a puppy, finally taking the time to observe the sights the city has to offer in broad daylight, now that the both of them are making their way to Minhyun’s apartment with little thought but food; for they didn’t eat on the plane, too busy napping to make up for whatever it is they felt the need to compensate for.

“I’ll take you to a pizza place later,” Minhyun promises, much to Seongwoo’s excitement. They come to a stop in front of the familiar sight of Minhyun’s apartment building, a skyscraper amidst the heart of the city, with sleek glasses and figures with formal work attire coming in and out. The doorman greets Minhyun when he sees him, though he blinks at the sight of Seongwoo; Seongwoo reckons, from this interaction, Minhyun seldom invites men back to his apartment. (When taken out of context, that must sound very  _wrong_ , but at the same time, the thought of that makes Seongwoo feel a burst of relief; the reason he can’t fathom.)

Unlike Jihoon’s apartment (the first thing they’re going to have to do when they’ve gotten enough rest is to find Jihoon, honestly, because Seongwoo sometimes finds himself waking up in the middle of the night when Jihoon visits his nightmares, pretty face beaten and bloodied—sometimes Guanlin is there too, crying in the distance, throwing accusations to Seongwoo,  _“you didn’t even try to save him!_ ”), Minhyun’s apartment has working elevators, and the both of them are spared from walking ten flights of stairs.

“Do you have your keys with you?”

“I do.” Minhyun takes the card out of his pocket, lets it hover in front of the sensor that stands underneath the number plate hung outside his apartment. The sensor flashes green, and with a beep, the door clicks open.

Inside, the apartment is clean, everything kept immaculately in place. The white wallpapers and the narrow hallway of entrance leaves space for him and Minhyun to take off their footwear, and the marble floor is ice cold. Paintings are hung all around the hallway, and Seongwoo pointedly looks away from a particularly gruesome one of a man in battle, stripped of his armor and bleeding his guts out; why Minhyun has it, he has no idea at all, though he assumes it’s the same reasons why a person would paint it in the first place: art itself.

“I’ll have to go see if I have to throw anything out from my fridge,” Minhyun says to himself, padding through the floor in order to make his way to the open space kitchen that practically blends as one with the living room. Seongwoo takes his time before he follows Minhyun, eyes roaming over the sleek interior that adorns his living space; whether the money comes from his job of being an art curator or if he’d kept some money behind from his life as a thief, Seongwoo can’t help but question. “Hold on—Seongwoo, is this yours? How’d it get in here, though?”

“What?” Seongwoo says in confusion. Minhyun holds a golden envelope in his hand, and Seongwoo takes it from his grasp, turning and tossing the envelope just to see if there’s anything interesting; but it’s a plain envelope, no matter how many times he turns it in his hand. “I didn’t leave this behind, though?”

Minhyun watches the envelope with keen eyes. “Open it.”

He follows Minhyun’s instruction and tears the envelope open, finding a single piece of paper inside. When opened, the letter is written not in handwriting, but in print; at Minhyun’s nod, Seongwoo resumes to read the letter out loud.

“ _To: Ong Seongwoo and Hwang Minhyun,_

 _“By the time this letter arrives, you’d have been too late to stop me from taking away my latest jewels—diamonds, and they’re very lovely, if you want to know—but you might have a chance of stopping me yet._ ” Seongwoo pauses, the blood draining from his face upon realizing just exactly whom the letter is from.

“ _How do I know you’re on my trail? You’re wondering that now, right? I’ll spare you the excitement of figuring it out—a little birdie told me; a little birdie with fallen wings, a little birdie I’ve taken from the sky, and into one of my nests.”_

“Did Jihoon mole us out?” Minhyun rattles, not quite in disbelief; he looks knowing, as if he’d expected it to happen, even before Seongwoo has revealed the thief’s source of information.

“Who else could it be?”  _It could be Jaehwan,_  sounds a traitorous whisper in Seongwoo’s head, but he desperately wills it away; Jaehwan knows something, but he can’t have ratted them out. Seongwoo knows Jaehwan too well to know that he wouldn’t so far as associate himself with a criminal—wouldn’t he? Nevertheless, he continues to read; “ _I’m a little disappointed. I’d expected more from the world’s so-called greatest detective and the thief who’d stolen the pink panther, but maybe I’d expected too much._

“ _At any rate, I’ll give you a hint, just to make it interesting! A siren, and its jewels. I’ll see you when I see you._ ”

The message goes unsigned, but it’s clear as day, even without a signature (though a signature certainly would’ve made things easier in figuring out their elusive thief’s identity.) When Seongwoo puts down the letter, he finds the corners wrinkled, and realizes he must’ve gripped it too harshly; hopefully, it wouldn’t have ruined the evidence by too much, though Seongwoo doubts the thief would’ve left his fingerprints on the letter.

“… At least we have an idea where Jihoon is?” Seongwoo tries, and grimaces when he only sees Minhyun’s tightlipped frown. “What do you think he means by a siren and its jewels?”

Minhyun says, slowly, “I think I know someone who could help.”

Call it a premonition, or maybe divine intervention, but Seongwoo feels a lurch in his gut that makes him think, he does not like where this is going—not in the slightest.

 

 

* * *

 

 **[ iv. ]**  

 

Not for the first time, Minhyun returns to a pamphlet of physical therapy on the couch; not for the first time, either, he picks up the pamphlet, and throws it into the trash, never bothering to read the contents instead of only skimming through the cover. They tend to have the silliest slogans, things that, Minhyun supposes,  _should_  make him believe he’ll get better.  _With a little help, you’ll be good as day!_  is one of the many things he’s seen written on those things, and yet, instead of acknowledging the attempt at positivity, Minhyun can see through the lies.

The world is a vast terrain, and the humans that populate it are either liars, or they’re the ones being lied to. Minhyun would rather be the former than force himself into a state of daydreaming where his limp is treatable, and he can go back to the life he’d once led before a reckless decision took everything away from him.

“Minhyun, is that you?”

… Almost everything.

Jonghyun is the only good thing in his life now, the only thing that keeps him from slipping away his complete control over his being, that now exists in a state that feels like restless limbo. Jonghyun is beautiful, even when he leans against the doorframe of their bedroom, hair tousled and sticking up in a few directions; he wears sleep like a cape, and Minhyun knows this is around the time he has his afternoon naps.

“Did I wake you up?” The words are supposed to invoke warmth, but they’re cold, and clipped, as if Minhyun is forcing them out of the shell of his mouth just because it’s their routine. Jonghyun’s eyes flash with hurt, and Minhyun gnashes his teeth together, just to keep himself from apologizing. If he started, he’d never stop; the last thing he needs is for Jonghyun to think Minhyun is doing anything but worse.

“I was going to wake up in a few minutes, anyway.” Jonghyun detaches himself from the frame, and stretches his arms above his head, movements as languid as a cat’s. “I wanted to cook you something for dinner.”

“Cook something for yourself. I’m not hungry.”

“Minhyun, you haven’t eaten anything since yesterday,” Jonghyun points out, a frown marring his pretty lips.

“Who’s to say I don’t eat outside?” Minhyun talks back. “Who’s to say I just don’t want to eat with  _you_?”

Genuine hurt springs in Jonghyun’s expression. Minhyun feels his heart sink onto the floor of his stomach, but forces himself to keep the venom in his eyes; the more Jonghyun realizes he can’t give Minhyun back what he’s lost, the easier it will be for Jonghyun to abandon him.

Painting himself as the villain in this situation will be better for the both of them in the long term, even if Minhyun hates himself all the more for it; but, he can’t be the person Jonghyun wants him to be, and to make Jonghyun unhappy (in the long run) is the furthest thing from whatever it is that Minhyun aspires to do in his lifetime.

“Okay,” Jonghyun says, and his smile is sad, but resigned; as if he knows exactly what’s going on Minhyun’s head, yet, continues to accept it for what it is. Minhyun wishes he knew what to do to make Jonghyun hate him, because no matter how many times he’s hurt Jonghyun by now, Jonghyun looks at him with the same, tender eyes as he had years ago; he still loves Minhyun, even when Minhyun himself desperately wants him to act otherwise. “I’ll just make something, just in case you get hungry later, okay?”

 _Why are you still so kind to me?_  Minhyun wants to shout; he wants the world to know of his sorrow, just as it had caused him the despair he experiences, now.  _I don’t deserve this—I’ve been trying to push you away, so why haven’t you left me?_

The words burn his tongue, and he fits his feet back into his sandals, barely registering the twinge of pain in his leg, too busy averting his eyes from Jonghyun’s imploring stare. “Do whatever you want. I’m going out again.”

“Alright—be careful, and don’t stay out too late.”

Minhyun shuts the door behind him with a slam.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Vermont is five hours—nearly six—from New York, and they leave shortly after getting their fill of food. Considering the letter they’d gotten and the clue that needs solving, they haven’t got any time to waste; the both of them can agree with that enough, and Minhyun stuffs the both of them enough snacks to last them during the trip in a paper bag, along with toothbrushes, vitamins, and packs of instant tea. (Seongwoo wanted coffee instead, but Minhyun thought it was an atrocity that he would’ve preferred that over tea; for some reason, Seongwoo relented, even if drinking tea makes him sleepy—it shouldn’t, by the way, considering tea itself is caffeine.)

“Who are we visiting anyway?” Seongwoo drives Minhyun’s car, keenly listening to the directions voiced by the robotic female voice of their navigator.

“I’ll tell you when we get there,” answers Minhyun, cryptically, and he stuffs another grape into his mouth. “Want some?” Seongwoo nods, and Minhyun places a piece in front of his shut lips. “Open up.”

He tries not to get distracted when Minhyun brushes his finger against the skin of his lips, how if he’d closed his mouth just one second too early he would’ve caught said finger in his mouth, instead of just the grape. The fruit bursts with flavor on his tongue after a single bite, and Seongwoo lets the sour sweetness distract him. (But not too much, considering he’s driving.)

“Don’t you want to turn on the music or something?” The detective asks after hours of driving with only accompaniment from the rustling of paper bags and their labored breathing. “Turn something on. Anything. I can already imagine your music taste, by the way—do you listen to modern songs, or are you stuck in the 40s? Or maybe you’re a Mozart type of guy?”

“I listen to anything that fits my taste,” Minhyun responds, flatly. He plugs in the AUX cord into his phone, and within moments, has Sufjan Stevens playing through the car speakers. The first few notes of  _Blue Bucket of Gold_  begin to play.

Seongwoo makes a face. “Indie folk. Why am I not surprised—the song makes me sleepy, by the way.”

“Don’t fall asleep just yet.” Minhyun shoots him a stern glare. “Fine, I’ll change it to something more upbeat so you won’t get sleepy,” and then, he adds under his breath, “weak.”

A popular trot song begins to play, next, and it reminds Seongwoo of what his mother would listen to while she was alive; during Sunday mornings, to be more specific, whenever she’d invite her old friends and they’d gaggle as if they were school girls in their lawn, listening to old songs and dancing like the middle aged women they were. “…This song? Really.”

“Stop complaining.” Minhyun punches Seongwoo’s shoulder, just lightly enough for him to feel it, but not hard enough to contain legitimate force behind it. Seongwoo exaggerates a moan (of pain), to Minhyun’s confusion. “What are you even doing.”

“Making things exciting, duh,” Seongwoo says, matter-of-factly. “I hope we’re almost there. I need to take a piss.”

Suddenly, Minhyun looks like he’d been forced to swallow something particularly sour. “I did not need to know that.”

“Now you do, anyway.” Seongwoo laughs; “Okay, sorry. That was gross, wasn’t it?”

“… Nothing new, now that I think about it.” For a brief moment, Seongwoo contemplates if he should stop the car just to give Minhyun a pout. “We’re almost there, though.”

The car is starting to smell like stale chips and fruit (an unpleasant combination), so Seongwoo does a little cheer, evidently pleased. “Okay! To Vermont we go.”

Four songs later (all of them still in the spectrum of trot), the robotic female voice announces, “we have arrived at your destination.” Their ‘destination’ is a suburban neighbourhood, where the houses’ exterior look as if they’re the same; white picket fences, spacious, clear lawns littered with gnomes and the occasional pool, the smell of barbeque wafting through the air. Seongwoo drives slowly, listening to Minhyun’s instruction as they pass, house by house, until they finally come to a stop in front of the house at the very edge of the neighbourhood, nearly obscured by a collection of forests and greenery. The difference between this house and the others is that it’s bigger, the lawn wide enough to have a manmade lake instead of a swimming pool; unlike the others, too, the house is a single story, but sights can be deceptive. For all you’d know, the house might extend, almost worryingly, to the back.

“Sweet place.” Seongwoo whistles. “A friend of yours, I’m guessing?”

For some reason, Minhyun’s face twists into a grimace. “Something like that.”

Outside, the weather is warm, and Seongwoo can hear crickets and cicadas from a distance; a clear summer’s night, where the sky has stars coming out of their recluse, the moon a pale grey, hued by a darker shade of yellow. Their steps make a crunching noise, a few dried leaves that’d fallen from the trees littering their path.

The both of them remain in front of the door, still, until Minhyun rings the doorbell.

“Just a second!” Someone shouts from inside, and a few moments later, the door’s lock clicks; it’s pulled open, and the light from inside the house bleeds out to the dark shadows outside.

As the door is pulled open completely, Seongwoo is able to gain a complete view of the man who’d opened the door for them—and it feels like a sort of déjà vu, because he  _has_  seen this face before, hasn’t he? He wouldn’t forget eyes like those, though—explicably sad, with a light that makes it look like someone plucked the stars, one by one from the night sky, shrunk them, and glued them inside the man’s eyes. The child that rests on his hip is unfamiliar, though (although it—for Seongwoo isn’t sure if it’s a boy or a girl—bears a striking resemblance to the adult carrying him, with the same thin lips of the same shape, and a similar facial structure), and young enough to be carried around, it seems; the man is using both of his hands to carry the child, fingers interlocked underneath the black-haired child’s bottom. “Can I help— _Minhyun_?”

Like the domino effect, when if one falls the others would soon follow, the pieces begin to make sense in Seongwoo’s mind; one after another, until they create a startling realization. This is the man he’d used to coerce Minhyun into helping him. The same Minhyun who stands behind him, eerily still, as if he’s a delicately crafted figure, beautiful and humanlike, but manmade enough to be made of stone; unmoving, silent even when prompted. Once Minhyun regains his wits, however, he moves stiffly, as if the body he’s using right now isn’t even his own.

“Hello, Jonghyun. It’s been a while,” his voice is carried by the wind, fleeting as a hushed whisper. If Seongwoo hadn’t been standing next to him, he would’ve thought he’d imagined the words, if at all; “I… This isn’t a social visit. There are a few things I need your help with.”

Jonghyun looks at Minhyun with a certain reverence that has Seongwoo feeling as if he’s intruding on a moment, and for some reason, the realization of it makes Seongwoo’s fists clench. “Okay. Come on, but, Minhyun? There are things I’d like to ask you, too,” he pleads (fucking  _pleads_ , of all things), and the grape Seongwoo ate threatens to rise up from his stomach, and into a pile of bile.

By a considerable degree, the inside of Jonghyun’s house is colder than the outside, thanks to the functioning air conditioners inside. The man of the house leads them from the foyer, to the dining room, and lastly, to his study; decorated with pictures of him and his family (the man himself, his child—his  _daughter_ , Seongwoo hastily corrects himself upon seeing a picture of her in a pretty white dress—and a woman with a radiant smile, who Seongwoo assumes is his wife) as well as little trinkets, like the postcards from Paris, or Rome, signifying wherever he’d visited before.

“Daddy has to talk to his friends. Could you wait outside, please?” Jonghyun’s going down on one knee to match his daughter’s height, who can stand alone on her own, though seems to be attached to her father’s leg, seeing how she keeps poking and prodding his knees. “It won’t be too long, and mom’s coming home soon.”

“Okay,” she mumbles, reluctant as she slips from her father’s grasp and outside. Jonghyun closes the door for her, and takes a moment to breathe, before he returns to face them; standing tall, although (and this, Seongwoo thinks pettily) still not as tall as neither him nor Minhyun, even at full height.

“Have a seat.” He gestures at the leather couch, and Seongwoo doesn’t need to be told twice. Minhyun apparently does, though, because Jonghyun repeats (softer this time, for a reason Seongwoo can’t fathom), “Minhyun, sit down, please.” Minhyun sits, next to Seongwoo, with dazed movements that don’t seem like Minhyun’s at all.

Struck with an unfamiliar tug in his gut, Seongwoo does what he thinks would be the best remedy for this situation, which, according to his brain, is apparently placing a comforting hand on Minhyun’s knee. Jonghyun seems to notice, eyeing it for a moment, but shakes his head, and plasters on a smile. It doesn’t reach his sad eyes. Minhyun, on the other hand, doesn’t move nor does he push away Seongwoo’s hand; this makes Seongwoo feel glad, yet for another reason he doesn’t understand.

“What did you need help with?”

A flick seems to have been switched, because Minhyun jolts back in existence, and regains the steel in his eyes. He still hasn’t pushed away Seongwoo, though Seongwoo wonders if Minhyun had been caught too unawares he hasn’t had the thought to do something about the hand occupying his knee. “Do you still steal?”

“… Yes,” Jonghyun answers, wary. “Why?”

“Has anyone been talking about the jewel thieveries? Or, perhaps the one that occurred in Italy, just a few days ago?”

“Ah!” Jonghyun snaps his fingers in recognition. “I know something about it, maybe. Why do you ask?”

“Do you know who it is?” Seongwoo asks, bluntly, much to Jonghyun’s evident amusement; the wry quirk of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“No, unfortunately, I do not.” He actually sounds  _apologetic_ , and that makes Seongwoo feel more awkward than anything.

“Then, do you know any jewels that fit the description a siren, and its jewels?” Seongwoo prompts, once more, too stubborn to return from Vermont empty handed.

Recognition sparks in Jonghyun’s eyes. “I think I know what jewel you’re talking about—it’s the Wailing Ruby, if I’m not mistaken. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you, Minhyun?” There’s familiarity with the way Jonghyun says Minhyun’s name, a familiarity that Seongwoo dislikes; which is odd, because Jonghyun hasn’t done anything to ire him, yet Seongwoo has been disliking him anyway, feeling almost  _uneasy_.

Minhyun’s jaw clenches, and unclenches, before he answers (as soft as a murmur), “I do.”

“’I do.’ It’s been a while since I heard the words coming out of your mouth,” although the words are light, Jonghyun’s voice sounds pained as he says this; the rueful smile Minhyun has clinging to the skin of his mouth doesn’t help, either.

“Whoa, whoa.  _What_?” Seongwoo splutters, and looks between the both of them with suspicion. “Did I hear something wrong, or were you guys  _married_!?”

“Seongwoo… please don’t tell me you didn’t know,” Minhyun says, giving a look to Seongwoo that shouts,  _I can’t believe you’re_ this  _stupid._ When Seongwoo doesn’t say anything, instead going slack jawed, and gaping at the both of them like a fish, he says again, “I thought you would’ve at least done  _some_  research.”

“I didn’t!” Seongwoo yelps, and rests both of his hands on the top of his head, like he’s just had the most startling revelation (and he really had); “God, I can’t believe—the both of you?  _Married_?”

“Is it so hard to believe?” Jonghyun asks, looking between him and Minhyun oddly.

“Well… It explains why you didn’t hesitate to help us.” Now that Seongwoo’s forced to think about it (though he tries not to think about it too hard, lest he starts conjuring images of Hwang Minhyun is full wedding attire, his figure on the top of a wedding cake that’s probably  _nauseating_  to eat), he and Minhyun don’t look  _too_  shabby together; but even that realization is clipped and reluctant, and he won’t let the words escape from his mouth, for even the taste of them on his tongue makes the foreign feeling return. “But you have a kid now! And who’s she?” Seongwoo points accusingly at the family picture that hangs over the study’s fireplace.

“We got a divorce,” Minhyun bites out.

“I’ve remarried,” Jonghyun finishes, holding up his hand, and Seongwoo can see the band of the wedding ring on his finger.

Like the tactless man he is, Seongwoo asks, “I—but,  _why_?”

“Do you want me to tell him?” Jonghyun asks, to Minhyun, looking at him like the two of them are the only ones in the room.

“He’d just pester me if you didn’t,” Minhyun responds, “and I’m sure he’d be able to pester me until the day we both died.”

Jonghyun laughs, the sound rough, yet at the same time, soft; a paradox, really. “Minhyun and I met when we were sixteen. I came from an orphanage, but he wasn’t too far off; so we ran away together, and we stuck together ever since. That’s how the both of us came to stealing—but you were always better at it than I was.” Tough load of luck it did Minhyun, though. “We got married eventually; you know, how you spend so much time with someone, you start figuring you’re going to end up with them your whole life too? That’s what we a—were. I was stuck with you for so long I started to wonder if I might as well be stuck with you forever,” he says, nostalgia creeping into his words. “But… life happened. And we divorced.”

“Yeah, like you could say that in a court. ‘Why are you getting a divorce?’, ‘Well, your honor, life happened so I’m breaking off this sacred ritual… thing called marriage.’” Seongwoo snorts.

To his credit, Jonghyun laughs, because he has a sense of humor, it seems. “I don’t think that part of the story is my place to tell.”

“It’s as much as your place to tell as it is mine,” Minhyun finally speaks up, sounding frustrated enough that Seongwoo, against his own thoughts, begins to circle his thumb on Minhyun’s knees in what he deems as a calming gesture. “Considering you were the one who gave me the divorce papers over breakfast.”

“I did that because of  _you_. You weren’t happy with me anymore, and you kept pushing me away—do you think I didn’t see all the pamphlets you threw out? I took out the trash, you know, during  _that_  time.”

“I know.” Minhyun smiles, but it isn’t a nice smile; he smiles as if he’s swallowing the sharp edge of broken glass. “You explained it well in your letters.”

Jonghyun’s breath catches in his throat. “You read them?”

“… Surprised?”

“You never wrote back, so I thought—I thought you threw them away. Or that I got the address wrong, but I always figured it was the former, rather than the latter,” admits Jonghyun.

“No, the only thing from you I threw away was the wedding invitation.” Minhyun waves him off, ignoring the look of hurt from Jonghyun. “Don’t look at me like that. You don’t know—you would never know how that feels. Not until it happens to you, but congratulations, I don’t think that’ll ever happen.”

“Really? I’m not so sure about that.” Jonghyun looks at Seongwoo’s hand on Minhyun’s knee, and it might be the trick of the light, but there could’ve been a brief spark of detest there; whatever it was, though, he looks regretful that he’d even thought of that, considering the apologetic smile he gives to Seongwoo, who returns it with a confused, shaky one of his own.

“What do you even mean?” Minhyun asks.

“… Don’t tell me neither of you have figured it out,” Jonghyun mutters, almost scandalized, at the way neither Minhyun nor Seongwoo say a word; the only thing the both of them are sure of is of their matching sense of confusion. “I won’t say it. It’ll be more fun that way, though I have to say, this is surprising, coming from you, Minhyun.”

“Just say it,” Minhyun snaps, and Jonghyun chuckles.

“I stand by my words—I won’t. You’ll figure it out soon, anyway.” He winks at Seongwoo with a good-natured smile, further deepening Seongwoo into the pool of his own puzzlement. Then, Jonghyun looks at the time, and considerably pales. “I have to cook dinner for my daughter now—her mom’s away on a business trip, but the both of you are welcomed to stay for dinner, if you’d like.”

Although Seongwoo is desperate to eat something rather than grapes, something in him tells him to not say anything, because this should be Minhyun’s choice to make.

“It’s okay. We’ll eat on the road instead,” Minhyun figures. “It’s a long way from Vermont to New York.”

Jonghyun hums. “If you say so—but, Minhyun?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t be a stranger,” Jonghyun says, “and come over for a Christmas dinner with my family. Please. Invite him, too, if you’d like.” He gives a pointed look at Seongwoo, who still hasn’t taken away his hand from Minhyun’s thigh; he’d forgotten to do so sometime along the way, and besides, this feels comfortable, somehow—even familiar.

In the naked eye, Minhyun would sound normal, even cold while answering; but Seongwoo can tell the slightest shake of Minhyun’s shoulder that comes, not from the cold, but from the swirl of his own emotions. “I’ll think about it.”

 

 

 

 

As the wave of fatigue of a flight from Italy to New York, almost immediately followed by a drive from New York to Vermont, sweep over Seongwoo and Minhyun not unlike the rough tides of the sea, Seongwoo pulls up at a five-star hotel shortly after their visit to Jonghyun's that wasn't purely social, but purely professional either, and books the last available room for the night; a presidential suite is their last available unit, but Seongwoo can easily afford it, so he snatches the room keys out of the air—even if the bellman looks at them oddly for their choice of clothing, standing out almost completely against the backdrop of suits and dresses paired with very high heels. (This, Seongwoo figures, is the effect of the hotel rarely getting visitors of the trust fund babies' caliber.)

"I'm going to take a nice, long bath," Seongwoo says to Minhyun in the elevator, just as the other swipes their card over the detector and presses the button to the top floor. "And then sleep until oblivion. I don't know. Fuck, I'm just exhausted."

"You and me both," empathizes Minhyun, leaning against the wall of the elevator with a sigh. "We don't even have any fresh clothes, though. What are we supposed to wear?"

"Each other's clothes?" Seongwoo's attempt at humor does not go appreciated. "Geez, sorry. I don't know, I think I'll sleep in my underwear. That should be fine, right? None of us have raging hormones anymore or whatever, although I know it'll be hard to control yourself, especially considering my specimen—"

"You could sleep butt naked, for all I care," Minhyun cuts the middle of Seongwoo's sentence, ignoring Seongwoo's exaggerated gasp. "Do whatever you want. It's just me, isn't it?"

 _It's just me._  The words don't feel... right, like there's something missing, but Seongwoo doesn't know what to protest with; 'don't say that because it doesn't feel right, even if I don't know  _why_  it doesn't feel right?' Not very likely.

The elevator dings as it comes to a stop on their floor, and the hallways smell of scented candles, with the aroma meant to help someone relax. They walk through the carpeted floor, no luggage in tow, and stop their walk in front of the entrance of their room. Minhyun lets the car key to sit on the sensor, and the door slides open; when they enter, the both of them are too tired to inspect the room, yet, the both of them are so used to luxury that when they look down and see that the tiles are made of fine marble, neither take their time to gawk.

"I call dibs on the master bathroom!" Seongwoo shouts, already running across the living room to open the door to the biggest bedroom. The interior is startlingly modern, the bed a king size that could fit even three grown men, and the bathroom has a tub big enough to fit two people comfortably. Hell, even the shower has buttons that Seongwoo isn't familiar with, and  _that's_  saying something. "I'm gonna take a shower," he informs Minhyun, though whether the other can hear it or not, he's not completely sure. Locking the bathroom door, he strips away his clothes, letting them pool to the floor before hanging them; wouldn't be any good for them to get wet, considering he has to wear these clothes tomorrow, too.

The water, warm enough to relax his muscles but not warm enough to turn his skin raw red, fills the tub within a matter of minutes. Once Seongwoo deems it enough, he turns off the tap, and sticks his feet inside the tub, testing the temperature; satisfied, he submerges inside the bathtub, and lies down until most of his body is inside the water, even the upper parts of his neck. He hasn’t had a relaxing bath in a while, too busy with the case, and Minhyun’s en suite bathroom in the hospital offers a shower cubicle that’s barely big enough to move around in.

He doesn’t bathe for too long, however, because his stomach begins to rumble half an hour into his soak. So, Seongwoo steps out of the tub, and drains the water—by the time he slides on a towel around himself, some of the water has already dripped to the floor, but it’ll dry fairly quickly, that he does know. The hotel provides peppermint toothpaste, and while it’s not as good as the brand he usually uses, Seongwoo brushes his teeth, still, and puts on his boxers—thankfully black, because would Minhyun let him live it down if he went to bed with heart-patterned boxes? (No. That’s the answer.) Thankfully, the hotel has a bathrobe hanging in the bathroom, so he slides it around his form, tying it around the curve of his waist; revealing his broad chest, but then again, it's not like he's committing public indecency.

As soon as he steps out of the bathroom, he can hear the sound of the television from the living room, playing a re-run of a popular, old school soap opera. Minhyun, the type to watch soap operas, apparently.

"Are you hungry?" Seongwoo says as soon as he comes in the living room, and sees Minhyun splayed down on the couch, still wearing the same clothes he'd been wearing earlier. He hasn't taken a bath, apparently. "I'm going to order room service."

"Choose something for me," Minhyun calls after him, as Seongwoo heads towards the telephone in the room. His eyes are transfixed by the drama unveiling on the television, and instead of finding it funny, Seongwoo finds it endearing; in his defense, who would've thought a whole grown man would enjoy a soap opera so whole heartedly?

After taking a look at the menu, Seongwoo orders the both of them burgers (a double cheeseburger for him and a beef burger for Minhyun) and drinks; the food isn't arriving any time soon, though, so Seongwoo shoves Minhyun's legs from the spot he could use to sit on the couch successfully.

"What's the story?" He asks Minhyun, who still hasn't tore his eyes away from the television.

"I think she found out her boyfriend was her long lost brother," Minhyun mutters, although his voice has a bite to it, like he wants to tell Seongwoo to shut up and watch it for himself.

"Damn." Seongwoo whistles. "Hey, are you going to shower any time soon?"

"I don't know, why?"

"Nothing! I just think it'll be more comfortable for you if you shower before you eat, you know," Seongwoo says, shrugging at the end of his words. Minhyun looks away from the television, resting his eyes on Seongwoo—for some reason, the tips of his ears suddenly turn bright red, and Seongwoo wonders why until he finally realizes exactly  _where_  it is that Minhyun’s looking at; Seongwoo’s revealed chest, and in any other occasions, Seongwoo would cross his arms together, or maybe tug the bathrobe closer to him. But, if it’s Minhyun watching him, oddly, Seongwoo is content letting the other just…  _look_  at him like this.

Minhyun shakes his head suddenly, like he’s trying to shake away his own thoughts. “I think I could really use that shower,” he mutters, suddenly, and walks away from the living room to the other bedroom—that also has an en suite bathroom—like he has something hot on his trails. A few minutes later, Seongwoo can hear the sound of the water turning, and he suddenly realizes he’s still staring at the empty spot Minhyun had been earlier; thinking little of it, he takes the remote, and changes it to the news.

The report is, as per usual, something about the president, having done some stupid shit that Seongwoo doesn’t even keep track of anymore. Detaching himself from the state of reality, the sound of people talking from the television becomes a small hum in his ears, and Seongwoo begins to think; not about the thief, not about Park Jihoon, not about Jaehwan’s possible involvement—instead, he thinks about Minhyun, how he hadn’t pushed him away when Seongwoo had a hand on his knee, how he’d blushed when he looked at Seongwoo’s exposed chest, how Seongwoo found it impossible to hate Minhyun, no matter how much he ached to, just to spare himself from the guilt that haunts him even in his nightmares, sometimes. There’s something there, something  _big_ , that the world can see, but not Seongwoo; Jonghyun’s seen it, and thinking back to his video call with Jaehwan, he reckons Jaehwan must’ve sniffed it, too—but what is it? What is he missing, the lost variable he’s overlooked in the equation that is him and Minhyun?

Is it attachment? (Of course it is, for there’s no way he would’ve bothered to stay by Minhyun’s side during his period of recovery if he didn’t give a damn about him.)

Is it guilt? (If that was the case, he would’ve seen it coming from a mile away—not that this is the only thing he feels when he looks at Minhyun, but the most obvious thing, Seongwoo figures, wbat he must be feeling to some degree, is the guilt.)

Or maybe—and isn’t this a wild thought—is it love?

He’s admitted, from the very beginning, it feels, that Minhyun is attractive. It’s not as if admitting that is  _detestable_ , because just like water is wet, the grass is green, and Seongwoo is handsome, Minhyun is that—attractive. Handsome. Whatever else adjectives you’d might use to describe him. So, maybe Seongwoo likes the way Minhyun’s eyes slants up whenever he’s smiling, just as he still finds it attractive whenever Minhyun frowns—it makes him look even  _more_  appealing, for some reason?—even if his laughter is more beautiful than his scowl. Superficiality aside, however, Seongwoo can easily find himself being more relaxed in Minhyun’s company, something he hasn’t found in many souls, except maybe Jaehwan, but thinking about Jaehwan in a romantic way feels all sorts of wrong and gross—he doesn’t get that same feeling of nausea when he considers this about Minhyun. Now that he thinks about it, the only time he’s ever felt sick, in an odd, tug pulling kind of way, with Minhyun around was whenever  _Jonghyun_  was there, and when he’d realized that the both of them used to be lovers (even the thought of that word, coupled with images of Minhyun and Jonghyun together makes him feel  _sick_ ), and he could never place that feeling before, but if he thinks on it—thinks really, really hard on it—maybe it could be jealousy?

All of Seongwoo’s past experiences with love, or lust, or anything along those lines, have been limited to intoxicated one night stands and short, summer flings. Or friends with benefits, something along the lines of what Daniel was to him. Like a flame, every experience Seongwoo’s ever had with love, was fleeting; it burned quickly, passionately, yet just as quickly as it was ignited, it’d burn out. He would mess something up, or maybe he’d just lose interest, and let it rot; but with Minhyun, is it this way, too? Whenever Seongwoo would find himself realizing his enamor with someone, there wouldn’t be a flicker of doubt as to what to do next—he’d go for it, emerge with a new love story that’d close almost as soon as it’d opened. But, when faced with the realization regarding Minhyun, all he feels is that he’s  _scared_.

Scared, because he doesn’t want to do something that might ruin whatever remnants of friendship he has with Minhyun. Scared, because he doesn’t  _want_  Minhyun to end up like one of his exes; never contacting him after their end, always looking upon him with resentment. If anything ever happens between him and Minhyun, Seongwoo wouldn’t want Minhyun to be like one of his old flames—he’d want Minhyun to be something  _more_ , someone who he’d be able to open up to, completely, to show even the skeletons that remain in his closet; all the bad things he’d done before his redemption, all the wrongs that still, even until now, outweigh the good he has done.

It hits him, like a douse of ice cold water to the head, that he isn’t infatuated with Minhyun, or the idea of Minhyun—and nor is he simply attracted to Minhyun, although he would admit that maybe, from the beginning, he has been attracted to him. It runs deeper than that, courses through more rivers than the simple state that leaves him besotted.

He is in love with Hwang Minhyun, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

 

 

 

 

Once the food arrives, the both of them eat it together, in silence and in matching hotel bathrobes. Seongwoo, too stunned with his realization, doesn’t strike conversation; Minhyun, who notices the oddity in Seongwoo’s demeanor (judging by the worried looks he continues to send Seongwoo, that’s a telling fact that he’s aware of the uncharacteristic tense silence on his part), continues to eat, pausing to look up from his food just to stare—longer than what Seongwoo is comfortable with—at Seongwoo, who eats like he’s picking on his food; on regular occasions, he’d scarf it down.

“Is everything alright?” Minhyun asks, eventually, when he can’t stand the thick, almost choking, silence that makes even  _dinner_  seem like a worrying activity. “Don’t bullshit me, by the way. I can see through your bullshit.”

“It’s…” What Seongwoo really wants to say is ‘nothing’, but he believes Minhyun when he said he could see through Seongwoo’s veiled lies, so instead, he opts for the truth. The half-truth, at least. “Something I’ll get over soon. The food’s pretty good, isn’t it?”

“You’re terrible at changing the subject,” Minhyun says, bluntly. “Seongwoo. What’s wrong? Did I do something to make you feel uncomfortable?”

Technically, Minhyun did  _everything_  to make Seongwoo feel discomfort, but if he admitted it now, then he’d have to tell Minhyun the whole truth—and is he ready for that? No, not at all. Maybe he needs a drink or two before he’d gather the courage to do something about his newly realized feelings.

“You really don’t need to concern yourself with it,” Seongwoo says, running his thumb over the top bun of his burger. “I’ll be fine in no time.”

“You’re right, I don’t need to concern myself with it.” Minhyun puts his half-eaten food back into his plate. “But I want to concern myself, so, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Like I’ve said before, you don’t need to worry about it—”

“It has something to do with me, doesn’t it?” Minhyun interrupts him, hard brown eyes narrowing. “Was it something Jonghyun said? Wait, no, that wouldn’t make sense. You were fine until earlier, even when we were in the car—did I shower too long? Do you want the bedroom I’m using instead?”

Admittedly, Seongwoo would rather share Minhyun’s bedroom with him, but that’s really not what he’s supposed to say now, is it? “Forget it, okay? Just… stop and forget it,” Seongwoo says, at last, and focuses himself on the task of finishing his burger instead of meeting Minhyun’s prodding gaze. He can feel Minhyun’s eyes are on him, still, like pinpricks needling through the shell of his skin.

 

 

 

 

Going into Minhyun’s room to ask for a charger in the middle of the night was a bad idea, and if Seongwoo had known what would’ve been waiting for him the moment he stepped inside the room, he’d rather have his phone die rather than be faced with the sight of Hwang Minhyun in nothing but his Calvin Klein boxers. Give him a phone that will die in the middle of his ride home, or basically anything else, but that; because he can’t hide the way his throat goes dry, and how the heat creeps into the flesh of his neck, climbing steadily until it reaches his cheeks.

“Uh,” he says, remaining to stand still by the entrance.

Minhyun’s eyes widen, realizing his clothing (or lack thereof), and promptly throws a blanket on top of him. Seongwoo appreciates the effort, but it doesn’t really help, knowing that he’s seen almost every inch of Minhyun’s skin. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s okay,” Seongwoo squeaks, and nearly stumbles on his own words. “Can I borrow your charger?”

“Yeah, wait.” Minhyun bends his back to retrieve the charger from the inside of his bag, the blanket falling down to his lap, and Seongwoo tries not to look at his stomach, or his arms, littered with scars and yet, none of it matters—thankfully, before his thoughts advance, Minhyun has taken his charger from his back and throws it Seongwoo’s way.

Seongwoo retrieves it mid-air. “Thanks.” He runs out of the room, across the hall, and with shaking hands, closes the door to his bedroom, trying so that it won’t close with a slam, no matter how much he wants to slam it and lean against the door, maybe slide down on it like he’s the star of some sappy Disney movie.

He doesn’t waste any time in climbing on the top of his vast bed, laying on his back, eyes staring up at the roof with barely any amount of focus. No matter how many times he tries to channel his thoughts into something like Jaehwan’s psychotic laughter or his mother’s trot parties, in the end, he keeps conjuring the image of shirtless Minhyun, leaning against his bed, and it’s distracting enough that whenever he tries to close his eyes and go to sleep, he tosses and turns, unable to find any remnant of peace.

Eventually, he gets up and pads to the bathroom, and attempts to take a shower with the coldest setting of water he can turn the water to, but it barely helps—only leaves him shivering from the cold, so he dries himself up, throws the towel away to the floor (he could always get that later), and flops onto the bed, long arms falling limp at his sides. “Am I really going to do this,” Seongwoo says to himself, bottom lip caught with his teeth; and apparently, seeing as he isn’t able to get Minhyun out of his head and tossing and turning in a useless attempt to sleep isn’t helping, he is.

It doesn’t take much to get himself hard. It’s been a while since he last did this (months, maybe?), too often being swamped with his own work and other people’s company that Seongwoo hasn’t had the time to focus on himself fully. He’s sensitive, too, and every stroke on his hand makes him feel like his nerves are set ablaze. (The image of Minhyun is really helping too, but, you didn’t hear that from him.)

Soft, hushed pants puff out of his lips, and Seongwoo bites down on his tongue to stop himself from being loud. He doesn’t know how thick, or thin, the walls are, and he’d rather play it safe; the last thing he needs right now is for Minhyun to barge in and see Seongwoo touching himself, eyes screwed shut, parted lips mouthing Minhyun’s name.

God, he’s a terrible person.

Seongwoo doesn’t go too fast, instead going slow enough to draw it out; he focuses on every sensation, grazing his hand up and down his cock, using his thumb to circle the head. His heels press into the cold comforter, and his hips jerk with every inch of his movements.

He isn’t thinking much now, finding that he would rather focus on the thought of how good he’s feeling, and how much better it’ll feel when he comes undone. Seongwoo is bound to have less restless energy after this, too, and maybe, he’ll finally be able to get some momentary peace in his head, just enough for him to rest.

(The door creaks open. But Seongwoo, too busy hearing the blood pound in his ears, doesn’t notice.)

“Seongwoo, I think I have to get my char— charger.”

It’s as if this was a movie (or maybe just a really,  _really_  badly shot amateur porn video), and someone hit the pause button; Seongwoo sees, from the haze that clouds his vision, Minhyun stopping shortly before the entrance to Seongwoo’s room, already pushed open without his notice. How the other has covered up with the same bathrobe he’d used to eat dinner with Seongwoo earlier, how his grip on the doorknob is white, how much red taints Minhyun’s pale, handsome face.

“Sorry,” Minhyun says, his voice coming out like something is strangling his vocal chords. “Fuck, I’m really sorry—I should’ve knocked,” the apologies stammer out of him, and Minhyun turns his back around, sharply, forgetting about his charger even when it rests on the table right next to the door. “I’ll just… just—”

“You can stay, if you want,” Seongwoo says, boldly. Maybe it’s the arousal that’s causing him to think with his dick instead of his brain. After all, his rational thought is currently shouting obscenities at him, but Seongwoo can’t bring himself to care just yet; he’ll regret this, undoubtedly, in the morning.

Judging by how the red that seems to seep out of Minhyun’s neck darkens, he understands the connotations hidden behind it. Seongwoo expects a scathing remark, something mean enough to either kill his boner completely or do the opposite; what he doesn’t expect is for Minhyun to turn on his feet, and, looking at Seongwoo dead in the eye, says, “Fine.”

Minhyun closes the door behind him, letting it fall shut with a click. With every step he takes, getting closer towards Seongwoo’s naked form on the bed, Seongwoo feels his heartbeat quicken, to the point he’s resorted to pinching himself in the arm just to see if this is a twisted wet dream. Even as he adds pressure onto his pinches, however, the scenery doesn’t change, and he never finds himself waking up with sweat trailing down his face. This must be the real deal, then, and somehow, that’s even more daunting than a dream. His thoughts go to a pause when Minhyun sits down on the bed, face pinched as if he’s not sure on how to proceed in this situation he’d dug for the both of them.

Seongwoo props himself on his elbows, and, after receiving a small, barely noticeable nod from Minhyun, leans his hand forward to undo the tie of Minhyun’s bathrobe, leaving the other to take it off, and put the discarded piece of clothing down to the floor, joining Seongwoo’s towel from earlier. Seongwoo memorizes every piece of Minhyun’s skin, every freckle, every scar of it; he lets the image sink into his head, knowing that this might very well be the first and only time this might happen—and Seongwoo knows he should be fighting, or doing  _something_ , to make sure this won’t end up as a mistake for the both of them; but at the end of the day, Minhyun strikes him where he’s the weakest, and he’s rendered at a loss for action, unable to even put up a fight. (And, to be honest? He doesn’t want to.)

“Are you going to regret this?” He’s moved closer to Minhyun now, and breathe the word against Minhyun’s shut lips, pink and plump. His hands have found their way to Minhyun’s chin, cupping it, thumb tracing the outline of Minhyun’s jaw.

“No,” Minhyun murmurs, breath tickling Seongwoo’s skin. He buries his head on the crook of Seongwoo’s neck and trails slow, lazy kisses, down to Seongwoo’s collarbone.

“What are we?” Seongwoo finds himself asking, trying to at least attempt that—because he doesn’t know if Minhyun feels for him the same way he feels for Minhyun, or if he’s just an outlet for Minhyun’s pent up stress release—before he lets himself melt into Minhyun’s cold, steady hold.

“We’ll figure it out in the morning,” Minhyun says, actually sounding slightly annoyed by Seongwoo’s continued questioning. “Just be quiet and let me kiss you, okay?”

“Okay.”

 

 

 

 

As the sun soaks through the pale yellow curtain, Seongwoo finds his vision doused with light, red spots popping up amidst the black vision that curtains his eyes when he closes them. With a soft groan, he blinks his eyes open, blinking once more the get the gunk out of his eyes. There’s a weight on his left arm, and when he glances down, he finds Minhyun asleep, head snugly placed on Seongwoo’s bicep.

And, yeah, Seongwoo feels the ache on his arm now, but at the same time he’s sure removing his hand would wake Minhyun up; there’s something so peaceful on Minhyun’s face as he sleeps, however, that keeps Seongwoo from thinking about his own comfort over the other’s.

He inspects the way Minhyun’s eyelids flutter against his cheeks, chest rising and falling as he takes short, quick breaths. Seongwoo doesn’t know if he’s ever going to see this again in his life, so he takes his time to look at Minhyun, to paint the picture that paints the differences between the almost childlike tranquility of his features when in sleep, to the cold stoicism he wears like a mask when he’s awake. Minhyun isn’t just pretty, like how Seongwoo had described him in his head before; Minhyun is beautiful, maybe the most beautiful person Seongwoo has ever seen (including his own reflection in the mirror), and Seongwoo doesn’t know why it’d taken him so long to figure it out.

“Seongwoo?” Minhyun mumbles, suddenly, voice rough and slightly gravelly; the after-effect of deep sleep. He opens his eyes, blinks to adjust himself to the light, and finds Seongwoo giving him a small, sleepy grin. “What”—he yawns—“What time is it?”

“Half past eight, I think.” Seongwoo reads off the digital clock, squinting to make out the blue digits. “Do you want to get breakfast?”

“Yeah. That’d be nice. I’m going to shower first, though.” Minhyun whiffs Seongwoo’s arm, and his nose crinkles. “You should, too.”

“We could save water and shower together,” Seongwoo says solemnly.

Minhyun chuckles softly, and detaches himself from Seongwoo’s grasp, sitting up on the mattress. “Don’t push your luck.” He pats Seongwoo’s chest twice before he leaves for the bathroom in his own room, for that’s where his clothes are, and Seongwoo watches him go, still feeling the warmth from Minhyun’s fleeting touch.

He could get used to this.

 

 

 

 

Breakfast happens at a diner near the hotel, when the both of them have washed up, wearing the exact same clothes they’d used yesterday. (Not like they have any other choice, though by the time the both of them get back to New York, Seongwoo’s going change into something more comfortable—the jeans he’d chosen to wear yesterday were more uncomfortable than he’d imagined, though this might be the effect of having worn it for a while.)

Minhyun orders pancakes for himself, and English breakfast for Seongwoo. Music dating back to the 1960s play through the jukebox, the waitresses darting back and forth between the customers wearing checkered sunflower yellow dresses.

“Where are we going after this?” Minhyun asks, his hands flat on the table.

“Go back to New York. After that we could check for leads on the Wailing Ruby, maybe try to track down Jihoon again,” Seongwoo says, playing with the red napkin covering the fork. “You know about the Wailing Ruby, don’t you?” He remembers what Jonghyun had said, and Minhyun nods, humming lightly.

“Yeah. I know the general story of it, but you could search it on the Internet and it’ll have the same story as I do.” Minhyun begins to pick on the straw of his drink. “I could still tell you, though, if you want.”

So, maybe Seongwoo just wants to hear Minhyun say it because he likes Minhyun’s voice or whatever, but he ends up saying, “I want to hear it from you.”

“The jewel’s cursed. At least, that’s what superstitious people tend to say, but I don’t really believe in that.” Seongwoo knows this, because for as long as he’s known Minhyun, he understands that the other doesn’t believe in curses. “That’s the reason why it’s called ‘wailing’—the jewel is beautiful, but it brings misery to the owners.  Its first owner had her husband die, and when she passed it on to her daughter, her daughter got separated from  _her_  husband. When the daughter gave it to her friend, her friend’s husband cheated on her; in a nutshell, they believe the jewel ruins relationships, and it’s named ‘wailing’ because people believe it causes the people who own the jewel to wail over the loss of their loved ones.”

Seongwoo whistles. “That’s… kind of sad, actually.”

“You’d figure people would stop giving it away, maybe would just keep it in a museum or anything, but a billionaire bought it back in 2005; he gave it to his wife, and they divorced last year. I forgot what they divorced over, but…” Minhyun trails off, but Seongwoo understands what he’s trying to say.

“If I were him, I would’ve gotten a jewel that didn’t have a tendency to ruin relationships for my wife,” Seongwoo comments, and Minhyun chuckles. “Why would the thief want to steal that, though? I know it could just be because he thinks it’s pretty, or whatever—but I don’t think that’s it.”

“Oh?”

“I just think there’s something deeper to it than that. Call it a premonition.”

Minhyun doesn’t comment on it, instead nodding thoughtfully. Their food arrives soon, sizzling hot on their plates, and Seongwoo gobbles it down with an enthusiasm he didn’t have during yesterday’s dinner; Minhyun eats, too, but his manners are more refined than Seongwoo’s, at any rate, despite the fact Seongwoo was the one groomed in an aristrocatic household.

Though Seongwoo finishes his food in less than five minutes, all the hunger from yesterday’s lack of appetite coming back to bite him in the bum, Minhyun takes longer, meticulously slicing his pancakes into neat little pieces. Seongwoo watches him work in silence, and doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until his cheeks begin to hurt.

“Why do you keep looking at me?” Minhyun questions, and looks up from his plate. He tilts his head curiously, and Seongwoo blushes, realizing he’d been caught.

“Who’s to say I was looking at you? Do you want my attention that badly?”

Minhyun shakes his head. “You can drop the bravado, you know. For the tough act you’re putting on now, you weren’t like that last night.” He smirks at the scandalous look on Seongwoo’s expression. “What? I’m just stating facts.”

“If you want to talk about last night, then what happened to the person who said ‘we’ll figure it out in the morning’? It’s nearly 12PM now,” Seongwoo retorts, and hides his face in his hands, practically feeling the heat emanating from his skin. The words come out muffled because of it, though he can hear Minhyun’s amused snort from the seat across him.

“I was waiting for you to bring it up. But if you want to talk about it now…” Minhyun offers, and Seongwoo peeks from the space between his middle and ring finger.

“Let’s talk about it now, then,” he mumbles through the expanse of his skin.

“I’ll go first, then,” Minhyun volunteers, and pauses, lips pressed together and the tiny spot between his brows creased in thought. “First of all, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t think of this as a one time thing.”

Seongwoo’s heart leaps in his throat. “W-What?”

“You heard me,” Minhyun mumbles, and his ears flush pink. “I don’t know what kinds of relationships you’re used to, but I don’t jump into anything that doesn’t have commitment—don’t give me that look—and I’d prefer if we could build something… lasting, I suppose.”

Considering this is someone who has married before, Seongwoo can get why Minhyun would prefer something that screams fidelity. In normal occasions, this would be the part where Seongwoo scrambles out of his seat and runs away, being as prone to commitment as he is, but for some reason, he wants to stay; wants to see what he can do with Minhyun, wants to see how they could make this work, considering the both of them are practically trainwrecks. (Though Minhyun is, admittedly, an otherworldly kind of trainwreck.)

“You’re usually not my type,” Minhyun points out, “but I wouldn’t mind going out of my comfort zone, I guess. But—only as long as you’re willing to try. If you’re just seeing me as some kind of  _play thing_ , then I’d rather—”

“I don’t,” Seongwoo suddenly says, and receives a look of bewilderment. “I don’t see you as that. Minhyun, I swear, I don’t.”

“… That’s good, then,” Minhyun says, stiff and awkward. Seongwoo tries not to show too much of his nerves, but then again, this is difficult because they’re having  _feelings_  talk and that usually makes his toes curl. Evidently, Minhyun is not a case of one of Seongwoo’s ‘usually’s. “Your turn.”

Where is Seongwoo supposed to start? Should he start from the time he looked at Minhyun and thought of him as a cold, intimidating beauty? Should he start from yesterday’s realization over Trump news, his realization that he was actually in love with him? Or maybe, should he start from the overwhelming jealousy that’d overtaken him when they’d visited Jonghyun?

“I just don’t want to lose you,” Seongwoo blurts out, and that’s not too far from the truth, even if it’s not the whole version of it. “And—fuck, I’m really bad at this—I figured, if I can’t bring myself to hate you, no matter how many times I’ve attempted, maybe I should just accept my feelings for you.” That isn’t a good confession at all, but if Minhyun expects Seongwoo to be someone who would get on his knees and start spouting Shakespearan styled confessions, then he’s about to get the let down of his life.

“Okay,” Minhyun accepts, and stuffs a piece of pancake into his mouth. He finishes chewing and swallowing the piece before he continues talking. “I accept your confession.”

“I—well—okay,” Seongwoo stutters, unsure where he’s supposed to lead this conversation to. “What are we now, then? Boyfriends?”

Minhyun looks up, and his eyes flutter for a moment, lost in thought. “I suppose we could be whatever you want us to be. Do you want us to be boyfriends?”

“That’d be nice,” Seongwoo says, almost shyly. “I think we have to introduce ourselves as husbands, though. Considering that’s… how we’re listed now,” he mumbles, and Minhyun’s soft chortle echoes in his ears.

“I think you can ask your friend to remove that,” Minhyun chides. “I may like you, but I’m not ready to be remarried just yet. We can just… take it slow, I guess.”

“Take it slow. Yeah, I can do that.”

The both of them share a smile, and for a while, everything feels alright.

 

 

* * *

 

**[ v. ]**

 

“Look at the sky! I told you it was going to be pretty, and when am I ever wrong, huh? I think I can find some constellations—is that Othello? Wait, was its name Othello? It’s really pretty though, right?” Jaehwan gushes, spread out against the grass, transfixed by the night sky.

“Yeah.” But it’s not the sky the man is looking at, with the basking light of the full moon and the little stars that scatter like white dots, only interwoven through the constellations, just as stars make. “It is.”

“Aren’t you glad you snuck out with me?” If Jaehwan realizes boy’s searing stare, he never shows it. Instead, on his face is tranquility, guard let down at utter ease, with a childlike sort of excitement bursting through its cracks.

Sewoon smiles softly. “I am. I’m happy I’m here with you, Jaehwan.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

**D-DAY.**

 

The com Seongwoo wears buzzes into commission.

“We’re in position,” Sungwoon says on the other line, his voice coming out through the crackles.

“Okay. This is One and Only, over,” Seongwoo returns, and in the corner of his eyes, he sees Minhyun shaking his head. “What?” He says, frowning at his boyfriend.

“I can’t believe you’re using that as a codename.”

“How do you even put up with him?” Sungwoon makes sure to interrupt their conversation, before hastily adding, “over.”

“I’d told you if I knew,” Minhyun says over the com, tugging on his tie uncomfortably.

The only thing Seongwoo notices is, “Minhyun, you forgot to say over.”

“… Over.”

July 31st, and both Seongwoo and Minhyun are in the middle of a gala, blending in with the crowd as much as they could with their tailored suits and neatly styled hair; Minhyun practically fits in with the socialites of Seoul, charming everyone his way, and Seongwoo is the one who isn’t doing any favours for himself despite the fact  _he’s_  the one who’s supposed to play with the rich kids. Maybe it’s the sarcasm, or his open confidence that had driven people away from him after a single conversation, muttering something underneath their breaths along the lines of, “He’s totally what I’d expected from the media. He’s gotten so  _boring_  now.” If Seongwoo actually cared about his reputation, he’d be sad, but then again, he’d never been in the good graces of these people—after all, he’s everything a socialite isn’t meant to be, especially after his reform from the clutches of the dirty lives of the wealthy shortly before he began his career as an investigator.

(That’s a story for another time, for it is long and filled with many,  _many_  of Seongwoo’s fuck-ups, including but not excluded to: too much drinking, too much partying, and too much manipulating.)

“Seen our lady?” Seongwoo murmurs, scanning his eyes over the crowd of similarly dressed middle aged men and women. Minhyun, sipping daintily on his drink, shakes his head; they were here to catch the thief, and to do that, they have to be on alert. Though Seongwoo has little clue as to where the thief is, exactly, he knows who they have to keep an eye on—the ex-wife of the man who last had possession of the Wailing Ruby.

“Three o’clock,” his com crackles, and true to Sungwoon’s word, there the lady stands at their three o’clock; a woman wearing a golden dress that accentuated her every curve, golden hair glowing through meticulous hair products and maintaining. Jessica Jung; known fashion designer and model, gorgeous (there was, after all, a reason why the media took a liking to calling her GorJess), and wearing the jewel on her neck.

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” he says, and disappears into the thrall of people chatting, generally building their connections. Though it has been less than a month, Seongwoo feels as if the case has taken him  _years_ , and he’d be damned if he let the thief slip through his fingers like a slippery eel.

“And I’ll keep track of the entrances,” Minhyun adds, and goes up to the second stair of the ballroom, finding himself a bird’s eye view.

“Good luck.”

“I don’t need luck—I only need certainty—but, you too.”

Many dances and announcements later, Jessica eases her way through the crowd, and Seongwoo follows behind her, maintaining enough distance just to avoid looking like a stalker; although, once he sees that she’s disappearing into the lady’s bathroom, there’s not much he can do but to grumble at his own luck, and lean against one of the marbled pillars in the ballroom. The waiting game is his least favourite game, but he’s gotten too close to just give up.

Fifteen minutes later, she still hasn’t left the bathroom, and suspicion begins to lurk in the surface of Seongwoo’s senses; he knows socialites, has breathed and lived their lives, and knows enough that ladies of Jessica’s caliber don’t view things such as (mind his language) taking a shit during public events, kindly; the most they go to the bathroom for, in his experience, is to touch up their makeup, spray on their millions’ worth perfume, or, if they’re anything like the women he used to hang out with, shoot heroin into their veins.

Once deeming the coast as clear, Seongwoo, as inconspicuously as he could, tiptoes across the little hall between him and the entrance of the ladies’ room.

Ducking into the bathroom, Seongwoo is relieved when he sees nobody loitering inside, not knowing at all what he would've done had someone really been inside. The stalls are closed, save for one, and taking a deep breath, he bends his knees, and sees the sprawled feet of Jessica Jung; the tell being the pink pumps she has been wearing all night. "Alright, time to save the girl." He jumps in his spot, wringing his hands together at the same time, before he raises his right feet and with all the strength he can muster, kicks the door of the stall. 

It opens.

He scans the cubicle, barely noting how big it is (but then again, these people holding the gala are loaded, so this is nothing to be surprised about), until he finally sets his eyes on Jessica's unconscious form splayed on the floor. The jewel, previously locked tightly around her neck, is gone; and Seongwoo knows just who's taken it.

"He's taken the jewel," he says into the com, bent down over Jessica's fallen body to get her into an upright seating position. Though she was unharmed, he'd deduced after running a quick scan over her body for injuries, her hair is tousled, the previous neat, not a hair out of place glamorous hairdo ruined. "Man, the thief's going to suffer for this."

"Sorry, what?" Sungwoon sounds confused. 

"He ruined her hair," Seongwoo tuts. "I can tell she's one of those ladies who put a hundred percent effort into her appearance—if we don't get him, I'm convinced she will."

"Err, okay," Sungwoon hesitates, not completely understanding Seongwoo's jargon and pysche analisis. "Minhyun has a visual on the thief—and I think I spot two ladies making it for the bathroom—"

"You couldn't have warned me earlier?" Seongwoo whines, standing up in a hurry and sprinting towards the exit. "At this rate, the media's going to start calling me a peeping tom!"

"I'm sorry!" Sungwoon apologizes, a quiver telling he might be genuinely terrified. "But you're out of there now, right?"

As the two ladies get in his line of sight, Seongwoo hightails it back to the ballroom, rubbing his hands on his pants. "Well, yeah, but still! Where's Minhyun?" He pauses, not seeing Minhyun on the 2nd floor where he'd been just earlier, keeping track of the movements inside the ballroom—giving Sungwoon a real life visual of the happenings in the gala. Like how the prime minister of some country starting with the letter S spilled his champagne all over his wife's dress.

“Minhyun is—wait, I’m getting a visual—he’s out in the courtyard on your floor, Seongwoo, go after him now!”

“You don’t need to tell me twice.” Seongwoo bulldozes his way through the crowd, receiving dirty glares and turned shoulders. “Excuse me, coming through!” He yells, and after hearing the first few murmurs of panic that’d crescendo into high-pitched shrieks (because when is a good thing ever happening when Ong Seongwoo is running around at a gala like a madman), tries to say, as reassuringly as he can, “There’s nothing wrong going on here, folks!”

Chaos ensues, then, after his clear voice breaks through the reverie of their chatter. The guests start to push after one another, each of them desperate to go outside the exit, and the music accompaniment stops in the middle of the bridge of the song; the orchestra are all gathering their instruments, packing them stuffily, before escaping through the emergency exit, and the ‘refined’ guests aren’t much better; in short, the gala has turned into a full scale mess, and Seongwoo can only imagine how much worse it’s going to get once someone discovers Jessica’s slumped figure in the body.

“Oh my God, is she dead!” A woman screeches from the bathroom, and now the room goes into uproar, with shouts of, “Murder!  _Murder_  in the gala!” and the occasional additions of, “This is all Ong Seongwoo’s fault! Who even invited that blathering idiot?” Well, random lady in the tight pink dress, it’s always nice to know when someone’s honest about their perception of him.

Fully aware of the adrenaline coursing through his veins, Seongwoo runs with all his might and the speed he’d never known he had, far away from the ballroom and the panicking guests and into the open night, where the door had been thrown open, its hinges even frayed. What the  _hell_  went on  _there_?

The moon shines brightly above them, almost taunting, and Seongwoo looks around the empty courtyard; nothing particularly interesting here, but hearing the indistinct sound of chatter, he must be getting closer. Taking a left, Seongwoo passes through the well-maintained shrubbery and a few Grecian styled statues, even one Cupid fountain; at the very end of his road, he finds a figure he isn’t accustomed to, wearing a suit like the rest of them, backed up against the brick wall that marks the end of the line. Minhyun is standing in front of him, blocking with exit, a gun held threateningly in hand.

“I hope I’m not late to the party!” Seongwoo jumps into the fray, feeling like his lungs might collapse from all the running he just did. Minhyun jolts, and swivels to point the gun at him before he realizes it’s only Seongwoo, and he releases a shudder of breath he’d been holding. “Don’t get trigger happy just yet.”

“It’s your fault for sneaking up on me like that,” Minhyun says, evidently tense; he warily turns back to the man, who has been standing there, silent, watching Seongwoo and Minhyun’s interaction with amusement gleaming in the fires of his dark eyes. (This is the first time Seongwoo’s ever used that expression, fire in someone’s eyes, because he’d always assumed it was impossible—at least, until he found himself face to face with this man with the expensive suit, even more expensive watch, and embers—fire, or whatever—lit in his eyes.)

“Who are you?” Seongwoo asks, bluntly. “Don’t even try escaping; unless you’re Spiderman, you won’t be able to climb through that wall.”

“… I’ll bite,” the man says, after three beats of contemplation. He lifts his head into the light, where Seongwoo can see the clear features of his face, instead of having the structure shadowed by the places where the moon doesn’t shine. “Hello, Seongwoo. Hello, Minhyun. A pleasure to finally meet you in person; my name is Jung Sewoon, and I’m the thief you’ve been searching for.”

 

 

 

 

**D-3.**

 

As soon as they step foot into South Korean soil, Seongwoo requests a private meeting with Jaehwan; a request that’d been taken with no small amount of suspicion from said man he needed to have a private meeting with, but the request was accepted, nonetheless, and as Seongwoo leaves for his workplace, Minhyun informs Seongwoo of his intentions to roam around the neighbourhood.

(“It’s been a while since I’ve been here—truly been here, by the way, I don’t mean the running around I did with you,” Minhyun says, almost complaining, but not quite.

“Okay. Do you want to take the car?”

“Which car?”

“You can choose.” Seongwoo shows him the drawer where he keeps all the keys of his cars (or, as he likes to call them, his babies) in one place. “I’ll be taking this one, though.” He takes the car key to his favourite, a mustard yellow Ferrari, and twirls them in his hands.

“…” Minhyun inspects the car keys in silence. “Do you have a car that I’ll be able to actually drive?”)

Now, Seongwoo is sitting across Jaehwan, and even after his entrance (dramatic, bursting through the door and immediately pestering Jaehwan with questions of ‘did’cha miss me? I bet you did!’), he hasn’t said a further word to the other, instead inspecting him—every strand of hair, the wobbly smile he wears without its usual swagger, the way the bags under his eyes have gotten even more prominent (prominent enough to make Seongwoo want to offer his sleeping pills to him)—keenly with his eyes, and in-built detective senses.

“You’re starting to creep me out,” Jaehwan mutters, and hunches in on himself, like he doesn’t like being put underneath Seongwoo’s microscope. “Dude, seriously. What’s up, and why are you looking at me like I’ve just killed your dog.”

“Okay. Well, first off, I'm going to just... throw this piece of information out here; the thief is going to strike again on the 31st, in accordance to the gala that the person wearing the jewel he's after is going to visit."

"We can plan something in advance, just forward me the details of the gala later. And then...?"

"I’ll be honest with you,” Seongwoo says, “I thought it was a coincidence at first.”

“What was? You’re not making any sense.”

“How you knew the thief was male.” Jaehwan pales, and that’s enough ground for Seongwoo to go on. “How you knew the thief was going to break its usual pattern of the full moon strikes.” He leans closer in his seat, peering at Jaehwan, who has backed away from Seongwoo. “What are you hiding, Jaehwan?”

“Those were all just coincidences,” Jaehwan lies through his teeth. It’d be less evident if Seongwoo wasn’t aware of Jaehwan’s lying habits (saying the last word a little off beat), but Seongwoo knows Jaehwan like the palm of his hand, and sees through the white lie immediately.

“You know there’s no such thing as a real coincidence, in this line of work,” Seongwoo says. “I don’t believe you’re working with the thief. You don’t… you’re not cool enough for that, I guess.” He ignores the nearly offended look Jaehwan shoots him. “ _But_. I do think you know something—something that you’re hiding from me, and I’m here to say,  _spill_. If you don’t, I’ll figure everything out myself, and I’m not shitting you when I say I would actually go through your high school files.”

Jaehwan waves him away, and his hand nearly hits Seongwoo’s nose, so Seongwoo retracts the distance between them by a bit. “Had those removed.”

“Had what removed?”

“High school files. Trust me, you really wouldn’t want to look at my high school pictures.”

“I’ll be able to find them, I have my ways,” Seongwoo says, airily. By ‘my ways’, he really means pestering Minhyun until the other would hack for him, but Jaehwan doesn’t need to know that. “Now. Answer me.”

Their staring match lasts a whole two minutes until Jaehwan blinks, and his eyes brim red with tears, not from sadness, but because keeping your eyes open for more than a minute stings. Seongwoo, already fanning his eyes, knows the feeling.

“Come on, Jaehwan,” he urges, and has a tissue in his hand now, patting away the droplets of tears that have streaked across his cheeks. “Just tell me. You know I’d tell you, if you asked me something like this; we’re  _best friends_.” There’s actually the smallest trace of hurt in Seongwoo’s voice, because he’s never really verbally admitted to Jaehwan they’re best friends—the love/hate dynamic they have going on would only have Jaehwan laughing at his face for the ‘sappy admittance’—and he feels like he’s presenting some butt naked part of him to Jaehwan, who’s looking at him with sadness in his eyes, like he can’t believe this is what he’s driven Seongwoo to do. “Say something. Anything. You’re starting to deflate my ego.”

At last, after minutes that feel more like forever, Jaehwan resigns.

“Fine. I’ve been neglecting my duty too, I think, from withholding information from you—but this is personal, and I needed… I don’t know why, but I needed to hold on to it, but I’ll tell you now. It all started when I was eight…”

 

 

 

 

_I used to sneak out of my house just before dinner. Where I grew up, it was a pretty lonely household; only my parents, and my maids, and me. I didn’t have anyone to play with, so sometimes, when nobody was guarding the gates, I’d climb out through the backyard and I’d run to the playground near my house._

The playground was a vast expanse of an outdoor sandbox, decorated with painted swings, slides, even a single see-saw that stood in the middle of the terrain. On the mornings and the late afternoons, parents would bring their children here, to let them socialize with the others from their neighborhood; Jaehwan knew nobody here, not the kids pushing each other in the swings, not the gaggle of girls building sandcastles on the ground, not the pair of twins taking turns to slide down the red playground slide. He was alone, even when the whole reason he’d snuck outside was to find his own friends, but there was something about the others that intimidated him; so for a while, he would stand on his own alone, only able to look through his bangs (he needed to have them cut soon or else the principal would have his head) as the others had fun on their own.

At least, until the day a boy, alone just like Jaehwan, started coming to the playground; what Jaehwan noticed was how he always wore the same shirt, even when the light blue dirtied into a murky shade of gray. He switched his pants sometimes, though, from a black pair to a brown one, but Jaehwan wasn’t sure how it made a difference when both were equally ratty.

“Hi,” he said one day, sticking out his hand expectantly to the silent boy with the dirty clothes. He smelled like the earth. “I’m Kim Jaehwan.”

The boy with the dirty clothes looked at Jaehwan’s outstretched hand, before slowly raising his own hand in front of his face, as if he was looking at it for the first time. “You’re supposed to shake my hand, silly.”

“Oh,” the stranger said, a blush forming on his cheeks. Hesitantly, he caught Jaehwan’s grip, and Jaehwan tried not to grimace at the dirt that clung to his skin. “I’m… J-Jung Sewoon. I think that’s my name.”

“How do you  _think_  that’s your name?” Jaehwan asked incredulously. “You’re supposed to know your name, you know!”

“Sorry.” Sewoon shrunk back, retracting his hand immediately. As fast as Sewoon’s action of taking away his hand, so did Jaehwan’s guilt form.

“… I’m sorry, that was mean, wasn’t it,” Jaehwan mumbled, a pout forming on his lips. “Hey, Sewoon, don’t you have any friends around here?” Jaehwan knew Sewoon didn’t, of course, but his father always said it was polite to ask, even when you were already sure of something. ( _You don’t seem to do that now,_  Seongwoo comments, receiving a dirty glare from his friend who’d been in the middle of telling his story.  _Alright, shutting up now._ )

Sewoon hesitated, as if he was torn between making a lie or telling the truth. “No,” he whispered, deciding that the truth would be revealed in the end, anyway.

Instead of walking away, like everyone had done to him before, Jaehwan instead smiled; bright as the summer sun that shone upon them, resulting the sweat that poured down his forehead, and made Sewoon’s neck feel sticky, and gave it an unpleasant smell. “I don’t have any friends either!” Jaehwan proclaimed this so loudly a few of the other children paused their activities to give the duo judging looks. “Hey, what do you say about being my friend?”

“Be your friend?” Sewoon repeated. “Be your friend…” The words sunk into realization now, and he looked at Jaehwan with the most hopeful eyes Jaehwan had ever seen; for some reason, it flooded warmth in Jaehwan’s chest, and Jaehwan didn’t find it difficult to return the smile, unlike whenever he was forced to smile at his parents’ stuffy friends. “I’d like to be your friend, Jaehwan.”

That was the beginning of the end.

 _I started to play with him a lot. I used to come back later from the playground, until my parents got suspicious, and one day, they followed me; found me playing with Sewoon, rolling on the sand until my new clothes got dirty. When I got home, they made me sit down to have a talk with them, and I was so scared—I remembered thinking that they might actually force me to stop being friends with Sewoon, just because he wasn’t as privileged as I was, but instead of doing that, they… they even_ asked  _me if I wanted Sewoon to be my brother. Of course I said yes to that_ — _at the time, Sewoon was my only_ real  _friend; I had a lot of people who wanted to talk to me at elementary school, but none of them fit with me the way Sewoon did. He felt the same way about me, too, though he didn’t have anyone to play with him at school. He didn’t go to school at all, actually. Before my parents took him in, Sewoon—he was homeless._

“Sewoon, these are my parents!” On one fated day, Jaehwan doesn’t sneak out to the playground, instead being driven there by his chauffeur, his parents following behind him and smiling at the excitement their son had been showing all day. “Say hi,” he stage whispered to the shell shocked Sewoon.

“Hello, Jaehwan’s parents,” Sewoon squeaked out, and gave so many bows Jaehwan wondered if Sewoon’s back was going to break. “D—Did I do something wrong?” And this time, to Jaehwan: “Do they want me to stop being friends with you?”

Jaehwan shook his head with so much force, if he’d given it a little more strength, he might’ve broken his neck. “No! Mom, mom, tell him the good news!” He tugs on his mother’s dress, admiring the way she smiled at Sewoon with so much kindness, it was almost like the way she smiled at Jaehwan. His mom was so  _awesome_.

“Sewoon.” His mother stooped to Sewoon’s level, never even seeming to care that the bottom of her dress now had some of the playground’s sand stuck on it. “Do you want to be a part of our family?”

“You mean, like, be  _Kim_  Sewoon?” Sewood gapes with all the magical splendor a child his age can muster.

“If you’d like,” confirmed Jaehwan’s mother; “or, you could still be Jung Sewoon—you could be our ward.”

“W-Ward?” The word tasted foreign on Sewoon’s tongue; this was the first time he’d heard a term so complex! Then again, the competition for that wasn’t very tough, for he spent most of his days either with Jaehwan, who had the same grasp of the vocabulary as he did, or the other kids in the street, who tended to use more colourful language that wasn’t age appropriate for Sewoon himself.

“We’ll be your guardians,” said Jaehwan’s father, speaking up for the first time during their conversation. Though he didn’t look as friendly as his mother, the wrinkles surrounding his eyes were enough to show that he was one who smiled plenty of times throughout his life. “We won’t be replacing your real parents, but we’ll provide you with a roof over your head, plenty of food on the table, and Jaehwan’s company—he likes you a lot, you know.”

“ _Dad_! You’re embarrassing me!” Jaehwan hid his face with his hands, much to the amusement of his own parents. Traitors, the both of them. He took back everything he said about his mom. She wasn’t awesome, she was mean.

“So, Sewoon? What do you say?”

“Okay. I’ll be your ward.” Jaehwan let his hands that were hiding his face to fall to his sides, instead using both of his arms to give a big hug around Sewoon’s waist.

“We’re going to be like brothers! Sewoon, you could share your room with me! We could buy a bunk bed—and I told you about our garden, right? It’s huge, and then there’s a pool too, if you’re into swimming; do you know how to swim though? It’s okay if you don’t, it’s really easy to get the hang off…”

 _Throughout the years, we were inseparable. People used to think we were two peas in a pod; Kim Jaehwan and Jung Sewoon, the two people who’d been together since they were kids, and would probably end up either marrying the same girl or even marry each other. I thought Sewoon and I—this is childish but I will_ not  _allow you to laugh in the middle of my sentimental story, don’t give me that look!—we’d move into matching apartments in the middle of the city, and we could sneak away from our families’ when were grown up, in the middle of the night, to watch the stars like we used to when we were teenagers. I would’ve given him the world if he asked me to, Seongwoo; that’s how attached I was to him._

(“But, what happened?”

“What happened?” Jaehwan repeats Seongwoo’s words. Suddenly, he seems so distant, as if his body might be standing with Seongwoo, but his spirit is somewhere else. “We grew up.”)

Sewoon returned to his shared dormitory with Jaehwan two hours later than he usually would, not for the first time that week; when he returned, Jaehwan was waiting for him on the couch, watching re-runs of an old cartoon, though his eyes kept staring (more often than not) into the empty space next to the wall.

“Jaehwan?” He called out reluctantly, completely aware of the verbal lashing he might be the receiving end of in just a few moments. Jaehwan whirled around in his seat, eyes growing wide when he saw the person he was waiting for, even though he was tired, and every bone in his body was yelling at him to sleep. He had an assembly to worry about tomorrow, but that didn’t matter, because assemblies were a one-time thing and Sewoon was a constant in his life.

A constant that’d been drifting away from him, distancing himself enough that Jaehwan had begun to view his other friends more often than he would see Sewoon. But a constant, nonetheless, though the reason he thought this might lie with the age-old rule of,  _where there is Jaehwan, there must be Sewoon._

“Where the hell have you been?” Jaehwan asked, not bothering with the formalities. “You’ve been coming home late, and you never tell me where you are—what if you’re in  _gang wars_? Sewoon, I’m seriously worried about you; none of your other friends know what you’ve been doing, and that fact alone worries me. See  _these_?” He jabbed his finger viciously at the dark circles underneath his eyes. “Thanks a lot, man.”

“Jaehwan, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.” Sewoon placed his messenger bag (a sixteenth birthday gift from Jaehwan he’d been using ever since) on their kitchen table, and began to pour himself a cup of warm water.

“You have to tell me, Sewoon,” Jaehwan pleaded, and he hated how thick his voice sounded, like he was on the verge of tears; he was rarely ever this dramatic, but this was  _Sewoon_. If he was ever dramatic over someone, it would be Sewoon—and it would always be Sewoon, that was the way things were supposed to be. “Have you been doing drugs?” He speculated, gasping from his own guess. “Oh my God. That’s it, isn’t it? Who’s dealing you drugs? I swear, when I get my hands on—”

“I’m not doing drugs!” Sewoon laughed, leaning against the counter with a familiar smile. “Jaehwan, where did you even get that idea?”

“From my head, because it makes perfect sense!”

“No, it doesn’t,” Sewoon denied, the laughter fading away, and the smile on his lips was replaced by a deeply set frown. “You’re being ridiculous. Get some rest, I promise I’ll get home early tomorrow.”

“… You promise?” Jaehwan asked warily. “How am I supposed to hold you to that when you can’t even tell me the truth?”

“Jaehwan, I’m sorry, but—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

Sewoon, properly chastised, looked at the cup of water in his hands. “You’re right,” he muttered. “It doesn’t. But I still can’t tell you.”

_You know how people break their promises, even when they don’t explicitly state it as a promise, but you expect it to be a promise anyway? That’s what Sewoon did. He didn’t even go home the next day, so, on the day he got back, I told him I was going to have late night practice; he believed me, but when he left, I followed him. Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t put a tracker on him or anything, I was just hiding out in the  café near my dorm so I could see when he left—and it was pretty late when he did, but I followed him anyway, though I was shit scared he was going to go to a gang and if I got revealed I’d end up getting shot to death by mobsters. Anyway, though._

_I didn’t find him with mobsters. But sometimes, I wonder if that would’ve been better._

Sewoon stopped walking upon coming across an empty public garden. At this hour, the only source of light came from the lamps that scattered all around the garden, considering the trees were big enough to overshadow the moon, and the stars; in broad daylight, the shading was nice, and blocked away the sun from being too bright—at night, however, the shadows of the trees just seemed sinister, and Jaehwan found himself wanting to go home, even before he saw anything begin to happen.

The night was unbelievably cold, too, and Jaehwan rubbed his hands together, blowing soft, white clouds into them to keep himself warm enough not to shiver. If his teeth chattered, Sewoon might hear the noise, and he didn’t want to risk it. Seeing Sewoon angry wasn’t something common, but if Sewoon were aware of Jaehwan following him, then Jaehwan had no doubt that was exactly what the other was bound to do. Sewoon was many things, but he was far from a pushover—something both of them had in common, among an abundance of things they held in common, though Jaehwan wasn’t sure if some of the points still stood; what if Sewoon, during the time he’d begun to distance himself from Jaehwan and the world around him, decided that he preferred to pour milk first before the cereal? (The thought itself left Jaehwan with a cold sensation of dread and horror.)

“Hello, Sewoon. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” Jaehwan froze. He didn’t know who that was, and somehow, that made the situation much direr than it’d been. Peeking through the shrubbery, he made out the figure of a middle aged man, wearing all black; if he didn’t look carefully, he would think the man was part of the night. “I had business to take care of in Japan.”

“The Tokyo robbery?” Sewoon didn’t sound fazed at all, even if Jaehwan’s gut began to churn at the slow realization; was Sewoon becoming a  _criminal_? A legitimate, Michael Jackson’s Smooth Crminal kind of criminal?  “It was on the morning paper; I think you did well. There’s so many things I could learn from you.”

This was an  _apprenticeship_. Sewoon was the  _apprentice_  of a  _thief_. The same Jung Sewoon he befriended on a playground so many years ago, the same Jung Sewoon who wouldn’t stop fidgeting the first time he got on a plane with Jaehwan and his family. That Jung Sewoon was on his way to becoming a  _criminal,_ of all things.

“See to it that you do. Have you packed? I’m departing soon—I don’t wish to extend my stay here for much longer; I’ve got many enemies, and if I stay longer than a month, I fear I’ll have people trailing me at all times.” He paused. “But then again, I know what I’d signed up for when I became the greatest thief in the world.” He laughed throatily, and Jaehwan always thought the term ‘evil laughter’ was an exaggeration until he found out that even the sound of a stranger’s laugh could douse ice into his veins.

“I have,” Sewoon assured, and Jaehwan thought back to the stacked clothing he found when he checked Sewoon’s bedroom earlier. “I just need a little time to say goodbye.”

“Don’t be so sentimental, boy.” The man sneered. “It’s going to be your downfall.”

Sewoon smiled; and Jaehwan, who knew him better than anyone else, knew it was his smile that said,  _I know._  “I’m sorry, sir, but I won’t be able to leave without taking my time to say goodbye. My friend, he… he deserves better than that.”

When the man went mute, Jaehwan was starting to fear he would do something drastic, like smack Sewoon across the face for being, as he said so himself, sentimental. “Fine,” he relented eventually. “But I don’t want to hear any word of your friend when you’ve left with me, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man readjusted his coat. “I’ll come by the same time tomorrow. We’ll leave immediately. I have to leave now, but I’ll see you tomorrow.” He walked away without saying a proper goodbye, and Sewoon stood there, still, as if time had stopped for him.

Once Jaehwan was sure the mysterious man was out of sight, and most certainly out of hearing range, he jumped out from the bushes, some leaves sticking out of his head. “Jung Sewoon, what the hell!” He exclaimed in a hushed tone, and when Sewoon practically  _jumped_ , higher than Jaehwan had ever seen him jump, he didn’t even feel a speck of sympathy. He deserved it for training to be a criminal, or whatever it was that Sewoon was doing with the man that Jaehwan received nothing but bad omen from.

“Jaehwan, were you here the entire time? Do you know how just how dangerous and reckless that was? You could’ve been seriously hurt!”

“Don’t talk about me, I was only here because I was worried about you! I thought you were in serious trouble—I thought there were  _mobsters_  involved, and I wasn’t too far off, was I?” Jaehwan raised his chin triumphantly. The ego boost went as soon as it arrived, though, because the revalation of what exactly Sewoon had been doing during all the times he’d disappeared was too horrifying for Jaehwan to let the moment absorb him. “You’re training to be a  _criminal_? Sewoon, why? Do you not get enough monthly allowance from my parents, is that it? I could always ask them if you need more, or if you want a new guitar, I could always buy you something! Why are you even resorting to  _this_?” Jaehwan made a wild gesture at the empty spot where the mysterious man stood there, just minutes ago.

“Because it’s my legacy!” Sewoon yelled, his voice echoing in the night. Jaehwan took a step back, heart hammering against his chest. “Jaehwan—this is who my parents were. They were criminals.  _Scumbags_. The lowest of the low. The  _trash_  of society; and that man? He helped them. He was their friend, and now, he’s going to help me too.”

“Sewoon, you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to follow the path set by your parents, you can form your own destiny—”

“Can’t you see it?” Sewoon said, almost hysteric. “All my life, I’ve always wanted to know the truth about my parents, why one day they just stopped coming until I was kicked out of my own home with an empty stomach and no relatives who wanted to take me in. That’s all I wanted to know. I wanted to know where they were, or if they died,  _how_  they did. And he”—Sewoon pointed his index finger at the empty spot—“told me all those things, and more. He told me how they were  _legends_ , how amazing they were at their jobs, how  _I_  could be amazing, too. This is my chance to prove myself to my parents, Jaehwan. They could be watching me, right now, and I’ve been left without answers for too long, only left with shifty memories of a kid who never knew better, to just waste away the opportunity.” Sewoon’s voice cracked at the end of his sentence, and the whites of his eyes turned into a pale red.

“Don’t do this,” Jaehwan whispered, and despaired when Sewoon shook his head, a smile of acceptance gracing his lips.

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Sewoon turned his back on Jaehwan, and stared off into the distance. The bridge between them began to burn. “I’m leaving, Jaehwan, whether you like it or not.”

Sewoon never returned to his classes; eventually, his professors began pestering Jaehwan about his whereabouts, but the last Jaehwan saw of Sewoon was on the night everything they’d built for the past decade (and more) went to waste. “He dropped out,” Jaehwan said, flatly. “He’s not coming back.”

Whenever the television would start playing news of a robbery, Jaehwan, against his own will, thought of Sewoon and his mentor; was it them? Or was it another group, perhaps one that knew Sewoon? Though they stopped talking, stopped  _meeting_ , even, Sewoon never left Jaehwan’s mind; in the end, he was the reason why Jaehwan invested all his lifesavings into a company that seemed to come straight out of a movie, much to his parents’ scorn, something about him needing to use his agree instead of letting it rot. But Jaehwan never listened, enlisted the help of his friend Ong Seongwoo (who’d stepped into his life months after Sewoon left and never came back), and built the agency dedicated to helping the people around them, dedicated to helping the people that those like Sewoon and his mentor wronged.

Him and Sewoon were once like brothers, but the rift between them grew, until their bond was severed and they found themselves standing on opposite sides of a chess board; Sewoon defending his king, the mentor, and Jaehwan the king of his own army, dedicated to stopping Sewoon against all costs.

 _I knew the both of us would meet each other again one day, but I didn’t expect the day to come soon. To be honest, I thought we were going to be like Professor X and Magneto, but it didn’t turn out that way; I don’t understand why he’s being so_ blatant  _all of the sudden, but the moon, and his identity, is all that I can offer._

 

 

 

 

“Man, the both of you are  _depressing_ ,” Seongwoo comments at the end of Jaehwan’s story, when Jaehwan has reached over for a capped bottle of water. “Don’t… I’m bad at comforting people, which you probably know already, but don’t beat yourself up too much. He isn’t your responsibility anymore.”

“I tried to stop him and I couldn’t. If he isn’t my responsibility, I don’t know what is.” Jaehwan struggles to unwrangle the cap, and Seongwoo nearly offers his help, until he manages to get it open with a sigh of success.

“Your responsibility is to be my overgrown caretaker,” Seongwoo says, frankly. “That, and you’re supposed to run Kim Jaehwan’s Crimebusters, and as far as I’m concerned, we handle  _all_  kinds of criminals; not just the old childhood friend gone rogue type, and so, even if he becomes our responsibility by proxy, he’s the entire organization’s responsibility. Besides, he said it himself. He’s the one who made his choice. I don’t think you could’ve done anything to stop it. He chose his path, and you chose yours.”

The way Jaehwan looks at him is unsettling. “Who are you and what have you done to my best friend Ong Seongwoo?”

“Come on, I can be wise too,” Seongwoo whines, thrashing about like an oversized puppy in his seat.

“I bet this is all Minhyun’s fault,” Jaehwan mutters to himself and takes a sip from the bottle, and when he catches Seongwoo’s blush, he chokes on his water. Seongwoo reaches over to pat his back until Jaehwan gets all the water out of his system and onto the floor. “I can’t believe—I was just joking but I was right—holy shit. You better treat him right.”

“Why aren’t you saying this to Minhyun? Who knows if he’s supposed to be the one treating  _me_  right?”

“Well, the both of you need to treat each other right,” Jaehwan says thoughtfully, “but I just like to make you suffer. That’s my job as your best friend.”

Then, they laugh, and it’s genuine and open and Seongwoo feels like they’ve regained a spark of trust that’d been clouded in Seongwoo’s head as doubt; but now that the truth is out, there is nothing but a sense of relief, and this is the way that things should be.

 

 

 

 

**D-DAY.**

 

Even held at gunpoint, Sewoon continues to smile, in a way that lets it show he knows something neither of them do; in a way, this is unsettling, for a sane man would feel threatened, maybe even quiver when someone is clutching a gun and pointing it at their face. Then again, Sewoon was trained by someone who must’ve been good enough at his job to evade any public suspicion until the day he stopped and threw the mantle to his successor, so maybe emotions training was included into the regime.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Seongwoo says conversationally, resulting in an arched brow from the tricky thief. “But, this is something I don’t get; the motive. I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

“We’ve never met before. For all you know, I might just be a very greedy man with an eye for precious gems.” Sewoon claps his hands together, a smile so serene it’s unsettling growing on the corners of his lips.

“I call bullshit!” The detective snaps, pointing a finger accusingly at the jewel held in Sewoon’s gloved hands. “This is the first time you’ve been so open about stealing jewels, leaving behind sentimental”—he doesn’t miss the way Sewoon’s eyes narrow at his choice of word—“clues like the time you watched the stars with Jaehwan.” At the mention of his childhood friend, Sewoon’s resolve seems to crumble, little by little, the previously calm demeanor he held melting into something more desparate. “What, didn’t think I’d have pieced the puzzle together? You’re not being very slick. Wait, no, I need a cooler way to say that—you ain’t slick,” he finishes, harrumphing proudly.

(Minhyun’s looking at him like he kind of wants to melt to the ground from the embarrassment of dealing with someone of Seongwoo’s caliber.)

“I have to admit,” Sewoon begins, articulating the words slowly, “I was… surprised at your sudden mention of him.”

“Him? You can say his name. Repeat after me: Jaehwan. Jae Hwan.”

“Doesn’t he ever shut up?” Sewoon directs this question at Minhyun, whose muscles must’ve begun to hurt, considering he looks like he’s about to drop the gun back into the holster if Sewoon isn’t going to try anything to escape.

“I’m afraid he doesn’t,” Minhyun empathizes with the outlaw, throwing him a pitying look for being at the receiving end of Seongwoo’s blabbering. “You can learn to tune him out eventually, though.”

“Good to know,” Sewoon says, never missing a beat. “This conversation has been enlightening, but I’m afraid I must take my leave.”

Before either of them have time to react, Sewoon’s thrown something out of his pocket, and moments later, a hissing noise and dark clouds of smoke emerge at the same time, blocking Seongwoo’s vision with dark gray he can’t see through.

“Smoke bombs!” Minhyun recognizes the attempt of distraction, and attempts to wave away the smoke to clear his vision. He pulls on Seongwoo’s hand, and the both of them come out from the field of the smoke bomb, and back into clear sight; Sewoon is right there, ten steps or so in front of them, running his way back into the ballroom.

“Oh no you don’t!” Seongwoo sprints off after him, and Minhyun follows behind him in a slower pace, looking for the shortcuts to wherever it is Sewoon would emerge from.

“Go straight, and take a left,” Sungwoon instructs, reminding Seongwoo of his existence, because he’d been so silent the past few minutes that Seongwoo even forgot he was a part of the operation. “That was for Minhyun, by the way.”

Inside the mansion where the gala is held, the guests have all evacuated themselves out of the room, leaving a comfortable space for Sewoon to run, and an easy spot for Seongwoo to trail after him without having to worry about bumping into someone’s nose. Sewoon abruptly halts when rounds of bullet are shot in warning in front of him; Seongwoo uses the moment of distraction to jump and tackle Sewoon from behind, sending him face-first to the floor.

A struggle resumes, with Sewoon attempting to wriggle his way out of Seongwoo’s grip, but Seongwoo leans onto Sewoon’s back with all his weight; eventually, Sewoon just stops moving, and remains still, a frown marring his lips directed at the marbled floor. Seongwoo kind of figures the frown would be for him if Sewoon could actually raise his head, but, eh.

“Jung Sewoon, you are under arrest for thievery.” Seongwoo fits the cuffs into Sewoon’s hands, and when the familiar lock of the cuffs sound, he beams in triumph. “Now, tell us where you’re keeping Park Jihoon.”

“B-Busan,” Sewoon wheezes out, completely out of breath from the pressure of Seongwoo’s body against his back. “He’s in Busan—fuck, can’t  _breathe_ , get off me I can’t get myself out of these cuffs anyway they’re electronic, aren’t they?—he’s in Busan, in the inn that Jaehwan used to love to visit; you can ask him where that is exactly.” He takes in greedy gulps of air as soon as Seongwoo slides off his back and onto the floor. Seongwoo feels a little guilty, but only a little; now, they’ve got to give Sewoon back, and catch the latest flight to Busan.

Only one more thing to do before they can officially close the case.

“Good job,” he calls to Minhyun, who watches them keenly from the second floor. For good measure, he throws in a thumbs up, one that Minhyun responds with the most carefree smile Seongwoo has ever seen his boyfriend wear. (Calling Minhyun his boyfriend still feels like a dream, but then again, even finally solving this case is like a goddamn daydream.)

“You too.”

“Hey, are you up for a victory round tonight?” Seongwoo suggests, and Sewoon begins to gag from his sprawl the floor.

“That is  _disgusting_ , why can’t you save that for the bedroom? Christ.”

“… Uh, I don’t know what victory round you were thinking about, but I was talking about playing Overwatch with Minhyun. See, I’m still introducing him to the game, but I think he’s liking it! You like it, right? You don’t complain about it a lot. Last time I checked, he really liked playing as—”

“You near the stairs—sorry,  _Minhyun_ , come down here and get your boyfriend to shut up.”

 

 

* * *

 

**[ vi. ]**

 

Many mornings later, Seongwoo will find himself waking up to the front page news being something so boggling, something so  _different_  from what the news is used to reporting. It’s news of jewelries, but instead of theft, the article reports (in a tone that screams confusion that Seongwoo can easily relate to) on how, overnight, there’d been a mass restoration of jewels all around the world. The most notable of them all being—

“Pink Panther,” Seongwoo breathes, and has to read the article twice to make sure he hadn’t come up with something in his state of half-consciousness.

But, how was it possible? Minhyun was here with him last night, and is still with him now, currently in a state of sleep in their bedroom; it’s not possible for him to be in two places at once.

“You have that look on your face,” the devil says himself, Minhyun suddenly striding into the room, still rubbing away the sleep from his pillow tracked face. “The one where you’re thinking really hard. What’s going on now? Did Jaehwan call you in?”

Wordlessly, Seongwoo pushes the newspaper to Minhyun, who skims through the article a few seconds quicker than it had taken Seongwoo to finish reading.

“Oh, Jonghyun finally put them back. I sent him the address of my safe last week, good to know he hasn’t lost his touch,” is all Minhyun says, before he pushes the newspaper back to Seongwoo’s chest.

Except this time, Seongwoo no longer has  _that_  thinking look in his face; he’s staring at Minhyun like he’s seeing something there for the first time, and Minhyun needs to flick his fingers in front of Seongwoo’s eyes to snap him out of whatever state he’s in this time.

“You… you put back your stolen jewels?”

“It wasn’t like I was going to hold onto them forever.” At Seongwoo’s disbelieving look, Minhyun sighs. “Okay, so maybe I was, but I don’t have to anymore. I’ve got a new life now, don’t I?  I just figured it was time for me to put those things back where they belong. I need to make a new story for myself, I can’t do that if I still have the skeletons in my closet hanging around somewhere.”

Seongwoo gawks at Minhyun.

“… Did I break you?”

“No,” Seongwoo says, and promptly gulps. “I just… you’re amazing.”

“I know.”

“You’re brave.”

“I know.”

“I love you.”

“You sap,” Minhyun says, accusingly. Still, he kisses the corner of Seongwoo's mouth, smiling as he does. “I love you, too.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

The moment Guanlin throws the door open and sees Jihoon standing on the other side, he runs, slamming his head face first into Jihoon’s chest. He wraps his arms around Jihoon’s form tightly, not even realizing the older’s struggle to stay upright at the sudden force that collides him in the force of his younger brother. Still, once he manages to regain his standing and he’s sure enough he won’t keel over, he lets his arms curl around Guanlin’s head, burying his face into Guanlin’s hair. A sniff. “Guanlin, I’ve missed you so much, but… have you been washing your hair properly?”

Guanlin’s reply is muffled against Jihoon’s shirt, but Guanlin does shake his head with all the honesty of a child. From the sidelines, Seongwoo guffaws, and Minhyun’s sent a jab to Seongwoo’s side to keep it down. (“Let the kids have their moment, Seongwoo, maybe Guanlin finds it hard to focus on washing his hair when Jihoon’s not there—stop, that wasn’t even remotely funny, be quiet do you want to sleep on the couch tonight—”)

When Guanlin reluctantly lifts his head from Jihoon’s embrace, tear tracks have stained Jihoon’s shirt, but Jihoon doesn’t mind them at all; in fact, he even smiles down at it, but only for a moment, for he takes the rest of his time to pepper his little brother’s face with kisses, leaving the longest one on his forehead. Guanlin giggles, eyes shut tightly, and smiles like Christmas has come early this year.

Knowing Guanlin, if Jihoon hadn’t come home for Christmas, he would’ve asked Santa to bring his older brother back for the holiday; but he doesn’t have to do that now, because Jihoon’s here, safe and sound, albeit a little worse for wear; but he doesn’t have any visible bruises left, and Sewoon, apparently, is humane enough not to torture kids. Maybe keep them around to avoid further leak of information, but he doesn’t harm them, and the only thing Jihoon comes out of that with is an unwated experience at an abandoned inn, that he would swear upon his grave, is haunted.

“Dad thought you weren’t going to come back,” Guanlin says through his faint, little sobs, “but I knew you’d come back! I believed in you,  _hyung_! I know you didn’t run away like dad said—you wouldn’t do that, right, hyung?”

“I would never,” Jihoon says, and the words ring like a promise. “Guanlin, I’d never leave you behind. Not as long as you need me.”

“But I’ll need you forever.” Guanlin pouts.

Jihoon laughs softly, and boops the tip of Guanlin’s nose. “I don’t know, will you still be saying that when you’re old?”

“If I won’t need you when I’m old, then I’m never going to grow old! I’m going to stay young forever, like Peter Pan!”

Unwilling to find the flaw in Guanlin’s reasoning, Jihoon once again pulls Guanlin back into his hug, a move that the younger follows along enthusiastically. The both of them stay like this for the length of two entire songs, only breaking apart once Jihoon explains, rather sadly, that he has to spend some time to talk to the adults who’d helped saved him; Guanlin, though reluctant, detachs himself from Jihoon. But, when he turns to the faces of Seongwoo and Minhyun, he flashes them a wide smile, so wide that his eyes crinkle along like curved half-moons.

“You really brought him back! Thank you so much.” Without a warning, he drives into Seongwoo and Minhyun, and hugs the both of them; leaving Seongwoo at shock, but Minhyun takes the hug like a fish to water, immediately stroking the top of Guanlin’s head. “I don’t know what I’d do without him. Thank you so, so much,” he continues to thank them, and nearly doesn’t let go until Jihoon gives a pointed cough. “Oh, right. My room. Don’t stay out too long though, _hyung_ , I need to show you everything I’ve done at school while you were away! Don’t forget, okay?”

“I won’t,” Jihoon calls after Guanlin’s running form, a watery smile on his face. Though he might not be as enthusiastic as Guanlin upon being reunited with his family, Seongwoo will never forget the way all Jihoon asked about upon being found was of Guanlin;  _is Guanlin okay? Does he think I’m dead? Does he think I’ve abandoned him?_

With Guanlin gone, the three of them are left alone in the sunny afternoon; just like their first meeting, only weeks ago but feeling like years, they sit on opposite sides. Minhyun with Seongwoo, and Jihoon alone.

“I wish I could say I’m sorry for unveiling your intentions to Sewoon,” Jihoon begins their discussion, “but I can’t. It was for my family—and for them, I can’t regret it. I’m sorry I can’t regret it, but that’s as far as an apology that I can offer.”

Seongwoo’s not surprised. He’d seen this coming from a mile away, to be honest, but he can’t find himself resenting Jihoon; all of them have something to fight for, and in Jihoon’s case, it is (very obviously) his family.

“Guanlin isn’t even my biological brother,” he continues, “but I’ve grown to love him like he shares the same blood I do. Do you know how he came into my household?” At the silence, he divulges the information that’d been bothering Seongwoo from the moment he’d seen Guanlin, but had been able to keep his mouth shut (a notable accomplishment) to refrain from asking the question. “When he came in here, he was left behind by his aunt; she is…  _was_  a friend of my dad’s. His parents died in a car crash, and they left him with her, but she didn’t want to keep him. So, she gave him to my dad, knowing he wouldn’t be able to refuse Guanlin, even if at the time, my family were already struggling financially. He was so  _quiet_  at first. I thought it was the language barrier, and to some extent, it was—but for the most part, he was just scared. You have to understand that he was thrown away by his own family, and that’s bound to leave an emotional scar on anyone.” Jihoon chuckles, though there’s no amusement behind it. Only woeful sorrow for Guanlin, who now shines so brightly Seongwoo has a tough time believing he’d gone through everything Jihoon is describing.

“When he opened up to me for the first time… I think that became the highlight of my life.” He smiles at the memory, and seems to shake away the nostalgia, before he coughs, and looks at the two adults with a face that says business. “So, what are you going to do with me now? Are you going to arrest me? If you are—I’ll go with you, just… please do something to help my family.”

“Well, Jihoon, I’ve come here to break the news to you,” Seongwoo begins, making sure to sound solemn enough that Jihoon’s even screwing his eyes shut, like he’s expecting his notice of prison to come any minute now. “Starting from today, you are now an official member of Kim Jaehwan’s Crimebusters. Congratulations, and come in after school tomorrow to get your official membership card.”

Jihoon’s eyes open, and his jaw slacks. “M-Member? What?”

“I pulled some strings.” Seongwoo waves away the dust in the air. “Made sure to put in a good word for you, added a thing or two about community service and putting your skills into good use. You’ve got a lot of potential, you know. You could use it for good. Besides, we’re going to pay you, too; it’ll be just like working, but your times are flexible, and you’re not going to work for the entire company—to be more exact, you’ll be working under Jaehwan and me.”

“This means—we—”

“That’s right! We’re a team, now.” Seongwoo beams. “You, me, and this guy over here.” He slings an arm over Minhyun’s shoulder, who doesn’t even put up a fight at the public display of affection. “The headquarters is pretty far from here, though, so if you want, I could have you and your family living in my mansion. I’ve got plenty of room left, and I’ll enroll you in a new school near the neighbourhood, just a few blocks away; unless you’d rather stay here. Ultimately, it’s your choice.”

Jihoon regains his wits, though when he speaks, he sounds dazed, as if he can’t believe this is his reality. “I don’t know what to say,” he says, honestly. “My family and I… we’d love to live with you, and I don’t mind about school at all, but are you sure it won’t be a bother? Guanlin can get loud sometimes, and my dad isn’t the easiest person in the world.”

“We’ll just have to learn how to tolerate each other, won’t we?” Seongwoo shrugs. “So, are you in?” He outstretches his hand.

A beat later, Jihoon takes the offered arm with his own, his smaller hand being completely engulfed by Seongwoo’s. “Yeah. I’m in.”

This is a new beginning. For Jihoon, for Seongwoo, for Minhyun—for all of them.

 

 

* * *

 

**[ epilogue. ]**

 

It takes a great deal of things to get Kim Jaehwan to make a personal visit down to the cells of all the criminals caught by his company, and even as his steps grow closer towards the cell at the far end of the floor, even as he tries to convince himself that  _no_ , this isn’t a social visit, and he just wants to take a look—it doesn’t change the fact he’s taking some time out of his schedule to visit the facility he so rarely takes his time to see, even though he knows how many glares he’s gotten on his time here, how many threats he’s received from the criminals he’s put behind bars.

“Are you sure you’d like to come in?” The guard standing by the door asks, fiddling with the key.

“I’m sure,” Jaehwan asserts, and the gate to the cell goes unlocked; Jaehwan steps inside, noting how all the lights are turned off except for the night light. On the bed, laying on his back with a book trapped between his hands, is the phantom who’d haunted his every decision; the person behind the existence of the organization to begin with, the person he’d tried all his life to get in his grasp, after having him disappear from his life like the wind, leaving no trace, as if he wasn’t there during the majority of Jaehwan’s days.

Sewoon places the book on the nightstand, and slowly stands up from the mattress. Jaehwan tries not to notice how orange the jail uniform looks, tries not to think about the boy with the dirty clothes back in the playground he’d met so many years ago.

“You’ve graced me with a visit,” Sewoon says, and makes a grandiose gesture at the sparse cell that surrounds them. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Hello, Sewoon,” Jaehwan responds, stiffly; for a moment there, he forgot how to speak, having spent too long comparing the matured features of Sewoon’s face to the youth he’d last seen during their disastrous night at the park. “I’ve come to ask you a question.”

The corner of Sewoon’s mouth quirks. “Alright. Ask away, old friend.”

“Why did you do it? I don’t mean why you became a thief in the first place—I know that reason well enough, don’t you think?—what I mean is, why’d you begin to steal all those jewels? You’re… subtler than this. You’re not materialistic,” Jaehwan says, head cocked in confusion.

“That’s the same question Seongwoo asked me,” Sewoon murmurs, seeming to find the floor particularly amusing. “But, if you have to know, I did it for you.”

“… For me? I didn’t ask you jack shit.”

Sewoon tsks. “Language. I don’t think your mother would be very pleased by that, you know?”

“You were the one who taught me curse words in the first place,” Jaehwan sulks. Sewoon’s resulting smile is almost sharplike in quality. “Anyway, tell me. I didn’t ask you to steal so many jewels, so if there’s another reason behind it, just say it,” he finishes, and he sounds weary, though he tries to cover it up with a neutral press of the lips.

“I’m not lying,” Sewoon insists. “I did it for you. I had to catch your attention, Jaehwan, and what better way to do it than to get on your radar? I know it wouldn’t get to you unless I did something grand,” Sewoon says, bitterly, “so I made a purposeful trail, though I’d never meant to get myself caught; the most, I think, would’ve been to get recognized by you. When I found out Seongwoo and Minhyun were on my trail (I left Jihoon’s place bugged, I know how to take proper precautions at that, at least), I knew I’d done just that. I should’ve stopped then. Who knows, if I had, then maybe I wouldn’t be in this cell.”

“But you didn’t stop,” Jaehwan says, resolving to think about Sewoon’s reasons for later. Preferably when he’s had more to drink. “And now you’re in my cell.”

“Considering I’ve taken residence of it, this is  _our_  cell, don’t you think?”

Jaehwan turns around, and heads for the door. “I’m leaving. Thank you for your time, Sewoon.”

“Any time. Come drop by sometimes; I’ve missed the sound of your voice, I wouldn’t mind if you sang something for me, sometimes.”

“… Shut the fuck up.” Does Sewoon think he deserves to tease Jaehwan like that, as if he hadn’t walked out of their bond like it was nothing? Jaehwan’s not here for that, not at all, and he begins to regret even the thought of visiting him. He never should’ve come here.

Just as Jaehwan steps out of the room, Sewoon says, softly, “I’m sorry.”

As Jaehwan turns on his heel and meets Sewoon’s tender eyes, for the first time in their first conversation in more years than the combined fingers of his hands, he chuckles.

“Sorry doesn’t cut it.”

 

 

 

**fin.**

**Author's Note:**

> if you made it this far, i'd like to give you my most sincere thanks for reading. i'd love it if you'd let me know your thoughts on this piece through the comments, or if you're more comfortable with another method, you can contact me through my [twitter](https://twitter.com/uitsdonghyun) (i have my dms opened).
> 
> also: [my tumblr.](http://fyodorred.tumblr.com/) feel free to talk to me or send prompts, etc!
> 
> i'll see you in my next piece. <3


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